


I kála hendelyato

by Lumeriel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU Fëanor survives, Berserker Elves, F/F, F/M, Gay Sex, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Incest (a lot of that probably), M/M, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Public Sex, Quenya names (like a lot), Unhealthy Relationships, and becomes High King of course
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-01-12 08:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18442694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumeriel/pseuds/Lumeriel
Summary: AU: Féanor survives and is High King of the Noldor. The abandoned ones in Araman arrive; but they have suffered great losses: they are not the same as we knew before. Meanwhile, new threats emerge from the shadows of Angamandi.





	1. Dramatis personae

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Spiced_Wine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/gifts), [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts), [xAnimalsBooksMythsx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xAnimalsBooksMythsx/gifts).



> I kála hendelyato: literally, it means 'the light of your two eyes'.
> 
> Special note: I don't usually dedicate the stories; but really, I want this to be a way to thank those who converted Fëanor / Fingolfin into a canon for me (I'm looking at you, amyfortuna and Spiced_Wine) and who first took the trouble to help me with my terrible English (thanks, xAnimalsBooksMythsx: if I continue writing horrible is my fault, not yours). I hope you have time to read it and enjoy it.

**First House of the Noldor, the House of Fire Star**

Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion Serindion, High King of the Noldor, the Noldóran – Fëanor  
Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanárion, Crown Prince (Nelyo; Russo; Rusco) – Maedhros  
Canafinwë Macalaurë Fëanárion (Cáno; Cirinci) – Maglor  
Turcafinwë Tyelkormo Fëanárion (Turco) – Celegorm  
Morifinwë Carnistir Fëanárion (Moryo) – Caranthir  
Curufinwë Atarinkë Fëanárion (Curvo) – Curufin  
Pityafinwë Ambarussa Fëanárion (Pityo) – Amrod  
Telufinwë Ambarussa Fëanárion (Telvo) – Amras  
Telperinquar Curufinwion (Tyelpë) – Celebrimbor.  
Laikammirë – Calemmireth, Curufin’s wife.  
Arandilmë Ardamiriel, Royal Guard’s Captain

 

**Second House of the Noldor, the House of Silver Star**

Nolofinwë Arakáno Finwion , High Prince of the Noldor (Nolvo, Pityakáno) – Golfin  
Findekáno Alkarinehtar Nolofinwion (Finno) – Fingon  
Turukáno Saironwë Nolofinwion (Turvo) – Turgon  
Irissë Arelda Nolofiniel, the White Lady of the Noldor – Ireth Aredhel, Ar-Feiniel  
Arakáno Tárkane Nolofinwion (Arko) – Argon  
Elenwë – Turgon’s wife  
Itarildë – Idril Celebrindal, Turgon’s daughter  
Ereinion Gil-galad, Fingon’s son  
Írien Lalwende Finiel (Lalwen) – Írimë  
Ektëllo Írieniel – Ecthelion, Lalwen’s foster son  
Laurefindë – Glorfindel, Elenwë’s cousin

 

**Third House of the Noldor, the House of the Golden Spear**

Findaráto (Artafindë) Ingoldo Arafinwion, Lord of the House – Finrod  
Artaresto Arafinwion – Orodreth  
Angaráto Arafinwion – Angrod  
Aikanáro Arafinwion – Aegnor  
Artanis Nerwen Arafiniel – Galadriel  
Eldalótë – Edheloth, Angrod’s wife  
Artaher – Arothir, Angrod’s son  
Lossëfindil – Finduilas, Orodreth’s daughter

 

Just for the record, more characters will show in the story, so, I’ll update the list later.


	2. Prologue

**Ages of the Trees, Tirion Kór**

“Which is more beautiful? Trees’ light or stars’ light?”  
“They are different.”  
“But which is prettier?” demanded the boy, frowning.

The prince opened his eyes and looked at the kid carefully. The slanted blue-gray eyes, softly mottled in lilac, watched him anxiously.

“The light of your eyes, _eleninkë_ ”, he declared in a deep voice.

**Seven years later**

“That's impossible. Not even aware of the aberration of my emotions I can stop thinking about him. Every minute I do not see him is like my heart is been ripped out.”  
“I know. It is for that reason that we should seek help. I know -I know someone who could make those feelings go away.”  
“How? Who?”  
“To the second, Estë; to the first ... she can ... enclose the memories inside a corner in your mind. When all the memories of these feelings are not accessible to you, you will not know that you once had them. Likewise, she can ... create new memories in your mind, cause you to change your perspective of a situation.”  
“But ... can she take away my memories from -from the time we have spent together?”  
“Not all necessarily. And she won’t take them away from you: she’ll keep them inside your mind. They will be there; but you won’t be able to access them. She will do just that with some memories: with our conversations, your discovery ... and maybe some occasions that you have been with him that could throw you back on the same path. You will be safe while the memories remain sheltered.”  
“Could…? Could my memories return one day?”

**Endorë, Angamando, Year 10, First Age of the Sun**

“He's incredibly stubborn, don’t ya think? Even more than the other. How much do ya think he holds?”  
“A bet, Raksha? It’s third time in the week that they beat him to the point of ripping his skin: he won’t survive another month.”  
“Mhm ... say what, Snaga? The doll is standing up.”

Above their heads, the other orcs gathered in the hall began a guttural chorus, animating the protagonist of the day. As Snaga said, blood completely covered the creature, as if all the skin had been whipped away; nevertheless, the man got up on one knee and with an effort, he managed to stand up in all his stature.

The orc in charge of the punishment this day was walking in front of the prisoner, dragging the whip behind him. The pieces of metal fixed to the end of the leather braid produced a screech as it slid down the wet stones of the room. When the prisoner stood up, the orc stopped his steps and turned to observe him with a cruel smile, stripping the long, lower fangs.

The prisoner rubbed a forearm across his face, wiping his eyes from the liquid that flowed thick from his shaved head, tinting his face completely. In the red of blood face, the blue eyes flashed stubbornly, defying his jailer. The orc emitted a mocking hiss and raised his arm.

“Enough for today!”

The clear, even musical voice did not stop the whip from snapping against the elf's neck - a metal piece sinking in the curve to the shoulder. The orc pulled the whip and new blood gushed out of the wound.

“Draksir, I said 'enough' “ said the golden voice as the crowd of spectators opened to make way for the newcomer.

The one who spoke was a being of exquisite beauty, more remarkable among those deformed creatures. His fire-like hair was pulled back by a gold and ruby headband, and his black and red clothes rippled liquidly around him. In his pale skin, golden eyes shimmered like gems.

Stopping in front of the prisoner, the newcomer observed him with disdain and a grimace of disgust pursed his sensual lips.

“What a lamentable figure for a prince of the Eldar”, he mocked. “Don’t you get tired, doll? One of these days, your skin won’t grow to cover your insides.”

The prisoner narrowed his eyes and a furious grimace stripped his teeth; but no sound came from his mouth.

The one with golden eyes contemplated him for a few seconds, as if waiting for the insults that should come. When it was evident that the other could not speak, he gave an amused laugh and made a gesture with one hand.

“Take him to my rooms!” He ordered raising his voice slightly. “The Master wants to see him tonight and we need to make him presentable.”

He turned around, letting two soldiers covered with helmets like wolf heads take care of the captive.

He had not taken the first step when the prisoner fell on him, clutching his long hair while trying to bite the neck, the face, the ear ... of the man.

“Tar-Mairon!” Shouted one of the soldiers, running in his direction.

However, Mairon did not need help to get rid of the attacker: bending an arm back, he nailed his black claws on the elf’s side. At first, the prisoner did not react to the pain; but Mairon released a pulse of energy that forced him to tense up.

The elf's body arched back and his hands loosened, releasing its prey. Mairon turned in place and before the elf fell, kicked him in the abdomen, throwing him to the ground. Quickly, the maia put a foot on the back of his neck, pressing his face against the slabs soaked in blood and excrement.

“Gag him”, he ordered coldly. “We don’t want him to commit the stupidity of biting our lord.” He squatted close to the prisoner and said in a confidential tone, but loud enough to be heard by everyone: “If you didn’t have such a beautiful smile, I would take your teeth out: it would be much more ... delicate when you suck my cock.”

A burst of obscene laughter followed his statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * eleninkë: little star.  
> * Orkish names came of nowhere basically. My 'orkish' isn't good.


	3. I Helquendi (I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that I said you before not to scream in the first chapters? Uh -I think I should have told you not to scream in the first half of the story. And keep in mind that, no matter how terrible the picture looks, there will be a happy ending. Probably.

The Avari - those who never heard the call of Oromë, who did not see the light of the Trees, who never stopped fighting in the shadow of the Fangs of Horror - had a belief: _'what is not named, exist not' _. It was, therefore, the Avari who named the newcomers: _helxë-lai_ , the people of the ice, because only in that way did they manage to assimilate them as beings of flesh and blood.__

The Sindar who lived in the lands ruled by the Noldóran adapted the word to their own language and the _helquedhil_ were born as cycles ago the _Nauredhil_ , the faithful of the High King of the Golodhrim, were born. Just as the deeds of the Nauredhil were transmitted from village to village with astonishment, the rumors about the Helquedhil were repeated with fear and distrust ... until they reached the ears of the Noldóran.  
The High King of the Noldor waited for his relatives to appear at Mindon Ehtelë claiming compensation and revenge: he knew the children of Indis enough to expect something else from them. However, the days passed without any troops passing through the fog. The days turned into weeks, months ... and the sentinels of the fortress stopped waiting for the 'ice elves' to come to them. The rumors kept repeating themselves among the avari; but the elves who had not seen the light of the Trees were prone to superstition and the Noldor mocked the stories of the warriors who did not breathe, the archers who merged with the shadows...  
Finally, in the twelfth year since the beginning of the rumors, the supposed travelers of Araman arrived. From the sky. 

__

Fëanáro crossed the courtyard at full speed, ignoring the warning cries of Macalaurë and Curufinwë, who launched in pursuit. From the forge - located on the south flank of the fortress - Telperinquar appeared, still wearing his apron and holding the hammer in one hand, as if he planned to use it as a weapon. 

The King stopped only because the powerful wind did not allow him to advance further. The shadow covered the patio and the sharp blow with which the immense mass landed, shook the walls and caused the guards who came to surround the sovereign, fell buttocks in a rumble of armor and spears. The sound of people moving and a plaintive moan was the only thing audible before the huge beast took flight again. Only then Fëanáro managed to uncover his eyes and without taking care of the dust that dirtied his tunic, he advanced towards the silhouette in the middle of the courtyard. 

Standing, carrying in his bare arms a body half hidden by a night blue mantle, remained an elf. 

Behind the king's back, Macalaurë let out a surprised gasp. 

“Findekáno!”  
The aforementioned took a few steps in the direction of the sovereign of the Noldor and said, with a half-smile:  
“I bring your son to you, my king. Won’t you welcome us?” 

__

Alone, in the cabinet he was driven to after leaving Maitimo in the healers’ hands, Findekáno stood at the window. From there he had witnessed the changing of the guard on two occasions and had had an opportunity to get an idea of the numbers of the Royal Army. In spite of the losses suffered in the crossing of the Helcaraxë, the forces of the _Helquendi_ surpassed those of the Noldóran by five to one, and that was shameful. Although it also made possible that Fëanáro refused to grant independence to the newcomers. Of course, one thing was that Fëanáro had the intention of keeping all the forces united under his command, and quite another was that the Helquendi were willing to accept his mandate. Now, if the play had not failed, Findekáno had secured a bargaining chip. 

The thought made him growl in low voice. A few years ago - before all this shit started - Maitimo had been his best friend, almost a brother, and either of them would have given his life for the other. But that was before Fëanáro threatened Nolofinwë’s life, before the ships burned, before the wind of Helcaraxë took the hopes of all, before his father... 

The door of the cabinet opened and Findekáno turned around to receive the king and his fifth son. Behind Curufinwë walked a young man whom Nolofinwë's son only recognized because of the incredible resemblance to his father and grandfather, most notable being in their company. 

“Aranya”, greeted Findekáno with a nod and turned to the youngest, to say, in a light tone: “You’ve grown a lot, Telperinquar. I almost don’t recognize you. How is that learning going?”  
“Good,” replied the boy, blushing and Findekáno thought that his father would have given him a bump if he had blushed like that in the presence of the Court. “I -I'm glad that –that you're fine, cousin Findekáno.”  
“My gratitude for your goodwill”, he made another greeting and turned to his uncle, who waited with enough civility to conclude with the courtesy games. “So, my king, how is your son? What do the healers say?”  
“What do the healers say?” Curufinwë repeated in place of his father. “What do they say?! You cut off his hand, you damn asshole! Did you want to kill him? That's what you wanted, right?! You wanted to take revenge on us!”  
“Yes, cousin; exactly that’s why I went to enemy territory to rescue Maitimo and bring him to his father”, sighed Findekáno, in a tired tone. 

Fëanáro’s son let out a roar and threw himself at him. Findekáno uncrossed his arms and held them up in front of his face, his fingers curled like claws, waiting for the attack. 

“Enough, Curvo!”ordered Fëanáro, coming forward to grab his son by the shoulder and stop him.  
“Father, let me give this bastard his due!” the prince asked, writhing in his father's grip. “He cut Nelyo's hand!”  
“Oh I'm sorry. He was hanging from a steel band on the peak of a mountain and forgot to take my blacksmith tools before I left”, said the ‘bastard’, lowering his arms.  
“I would have saved him without needing ...!”  
“Why didn’t you do it then?” roared Findekáno, losing patience. “Why didn’t you go to Thangorodrim, alone, as I did, and searched for your brother until you found him? Why did you stay here, hiding behind dad’s army while Moringotto and his beasts tortured your brother and then hung him from a mountain like a useless bale? Why didn’t you do what any brother’d have done? If Turvo had been a prisoner, not a thousand armies of demons would have prevented me from going in search of him!” 

A tense silence followed his words. Findekáno clenched his fists to the sides of his body, breathing hard. Anger lit his blue eyes and highlighted the scar that ran down his cheek, giving his beautiful features a fierce look that momentarily froze his cousin.  
“Leave us alone, Curufinwë”, said the Noldóran, gently pulling his son to lead him to the door. “Findekáno and I have to talk.”  
“Father, don’t ...”  
“Now”, said Fëanáro, imperturbable. 

Curufinwë nodded, reluctantly and sent one last threatening glance at the Nolofinwion, who - having recovered his composure - made a mocking bow. 

“Take care of your father, _indyo_ ”, the Noldóran spoke to his grandson, caressing his hair. 

The gesture caused Findekáno to squint and clench his jaw, containing some emotion. 

Once alone, Fëanáro turned to face his nephew and, for a moment, the resemblance to his half-brother disconcerted him. Recovering, he declared in a metallic voice: 

“I know why you did it, Findekáno.” 

The young elf shrugged and sketched a smooth smile. 

“Then, I don’t have to go around the bush. I brought your son back. Maitimo is strong: I’m sure he’ll recover and it won’t be a hard task for you to forge a precious hand that causes the envy of all the Noldor ... hey, it may become a fad!”  
“Respect, brat, or I'll cut that empty head with my own hands.”  
“No, you will not”, the young elf denied shamelessly. “Years ago, in Tirion, maybe you would have done it; but today -today you know the taste of defeat. You have experienced the strength of the enemy in your own flesh according to the rumors. You have lost a child in your desperation to get rid of the obstacles and you are not sure of having recovered your firstborn. Today, you are not willing to lose the advantage that _our_ people guarantee you. You’ll not cut my head, Finwë Curufinwë, because doing so would deprive you of the greatest army you can hope to gather. Besides, what would the Sindar think of a king who beheads his own nephew? After such great service?” 

Fëanáro studied him through his lashes, trying to take the measure of this elf that did not look like the one he knew as a funny and unwise boy. 

“Did your father make you learn that speech?” he mocked, with an arched eyebrow. “Why did not he come in person? Or is it that he still thinks of himself as the ruler of Tirion?” 

The carefree expression vanished from Findekáno's features: his eyes and mouth hardened until no emotion arose in them. 

__“My father”, he repeated, unstilled. “I see that the news does not travel so fast after all.”  
“What? Does not he know you're here? Was this your own decision? I did not think you were so clever as to devise ...”  
“My father is no longer the leader of the House of the Silver Star, my king.” 

Fëanáro frowned slightly: he must have guessed. Even before he took the ships, the comments of Arafinwë's decision to return to Tirion had spread throughout the camp. He must have guessed that Nolofinwë would also retrace his steps; however, deep within himself, he had expected Nolofinwë to fulfill his promise made in front of Manwë’s throne. 

With a shake of the head, the High King dismissed the thought and with tone of mockery, added: 

“So he returned to Aman, to beg for the forgiveness of the Valar. It could more fear than the hunger for power.”  
“It could more the weapon of the orc that killed him that the desire to beat you in the face.” 

Fëanáro blinked several times. Findekáno had not moved; but his words were like a punch straight to his stomach. 

“What…?”  
“My father fell in battle. A few hours after our arrival on the shores of Endorë, we were attacked by a considerable number of slaves of darkness. My brother -Arakáno -was dragged with his men into the enemy forces: father went to his aid. Neither of them succeeded.” 

The Noldóran let out the breath that he did not realize he’d been holding. Many times he considered the possibility that Nolofinwë had returned to Tirion - it was a certainty for him - but the idea of his half-brother being dead... Damn asshole: he died in his first fight! 

__“Then”, he said after a moment; “you are your people’s leader.”  
“I’m the High Prince of the House of the Silver Star. As Findaráto is the Lord of the House of the Golden Spear.”  
“Arafinwë ...?”  
“He returned to Valinor”, shrugged Findekáno. “Now that we have caught up with the family news, can we discuss the reason for my presence here?”  
“Is not it swearing loyalty?” The High King raised an eyebrow.  
“The border lands with enemy territory. I think the Sindar call it ...”  
“Do you want Dorthonion for you?”  
“And the hill ... Himring, right? We have enough warriors to constitute a respectable defensive line. I, my sister and my cousins have enough experience in defense lines to be able to protect the kingdom and stop an attack long enough for your army to prepare.”  
“How much experience do you have in the war?” Fëanáro scoffed, sitting on one of the high-backed chairs and crossing one leg over the other, so that the tunic opened to show the shiny boots and tight pants. “As I understand it, you have only participated in one battle.”  
“One battle, yes. Now, crossing the Grinding Ice served as training to work as a team and ensure the survival of the essentials. On the other hand, we have camped in an area where skirmishes are frequent. We spent a good time of our days controlling the enemy.”  
“Camping? Do not they start to build yet?” the king frowned.  
“The lands in which we find ourselves do not belong to us, aranya.” 

Fëanáro watched him for a moment through the long lashes. 

“It would be more convenient to keep those forces close to me, don’t you think? If I grant you the lands you ask for, I will be giving you too much independence. What guarantees me that you will not turn against me?”  
“We have come to Endorë to avenge our loved ones, uncle and lord. I assure you that you have our absolute loyalty to attack the Dark Enemy.” 

The king perceived the distinction in the young elf's words. 

__“Others could ask the same deference for them. I cannot allow our people to disperse ...”  
“Others haven’t rescued your firstborn, at the risk of their own lives ... _Aran Meletyalda_ ”, the youth reminded him, with almost sweet mellowness.  
“You realize that if Nelyo dies, I'll have an excuse to execute you, right?” Finwë's son stressed. 

Findekáno did not allow the possibility to impress him. It was something he did not consider; but neither was he going to surrender to the first obstacle: simply, it was not his style. 

“If Nelyo dies -The 'if' is the key, right? Right now, Maitimo is alive and struggling to recover. He is only in shock. So, uncle, let's go back to my request ...” 

Fëanáro tapped his fingers on the arm of his seat. Nolofinwë's brat was right: with their numbers, Findekáno's soldiers and their cousins would be a barrier to consider between Hisilómë and the territories of the Enemy. The only problem with that arrangement was the freedom to act that left the iniquitous half-vanyarin. Findekáno was right: Fëanáro Serindion had changed, he had learned. Years ago, under the light of the Trees, his first impulse would have been to send his nephews as far as possible; now (after the wounds caused by the valaraukos’ whips took so long to heal, after his eldest son being lost for years, after Telufinwë’s screams were repeated in his ears every night) Fëanáro considered before taking a decision. Maybe it was more convenient to keep the kids close. Maybe he should have at least one of his nephews in court, to control the others. If such were his decision, Findekáno would certainly be the logical choice. He was the leader by inheritance and by right, and it was clear that it was his will which governed the 'ice elves'. 

Fëanáro decided that he needed to understand how much the people of his half-brother had changed. 

“I think it's too early to talk about a reward for your actions, Findekáno”, he declared after a few minutes. “You will remain here while the recovery of Nelyafinwë lasts. Depending on his evolution, I will consider your request.” 

Findekáno could not contain the grimace of disappointment; but immediately, he inclined his head, in sign of assent. 

__“I expected no less from the most skillful of our race. However, aranya, I ask you to send a message to my sister and my cousins: they will think that something has happened to me.”  
“Do not they know you went to rescue your prince?” raised an eyebrow Fëanáro.  
“I don’t think it would have been a popular task among mine" the young elf chuckled, leaning his head on one shoulder. “Will I be assigned a room or will I have the pleasure of knowing the dungeons? You have dungeons, right? I don’t wanna sleep outdoors.” 

Fëanáro valued the possibility of sending him to the stables. Finally, he stood up and told him to wait there, heading for the exit. 

“My father would have been surprised.” Findekáno's comment stopped the king, making him turn halfway. “He never believed you had enough nerve to do negotiations: I confess that I always had more faith in your many talents ... uncle.”  
“And I always thought that one day someone would tear your tongue out of insolence. You're still in time to give me the reason.” 

Findekáno covered his mouth with two fingers, mockingly, almost coquettishly, and for a second, Fëanáro thought he was looking at the Nolofinwë that provoked him when he was a teenager, long before he became his political rival. 

<

The exit of the Noldóran had left Findekáno with space and time to reevaluate his situation. In all sincerity, he had not expected this turn of events: he had believed that he would take advantage of Fëanáro's emotionality and the immense love he felt for his firstborn son. Many would believe that Atarinkë was Fëanáro's favorite son; but Findekáno had spent enough time in his uncle's house to not know the truth at this point. Maitimo was the only one who inherited the better of his two parents: often Queen Indis said that Fëanáro and Nerdanel should have been content with that first perfect son. Nerdanel loved in Maitimo what once made her fall in love with Fëanáro, and Fëanáro loved in his son the qualities that fascinated him of Mahtan's daughter. A fair exchange. 

The fact was that Findekáno had believed that he had enough advantage to obtain a medium independence that would prevent him from seeing his uncle and cousins’ face on a daily basis -and it turns out that he was now an involuntary guest of the Noldóran! For the first time since he had descended from the back of the eagle, Findekáno began to wish for the recovery of his old friend. 

The young man turned around when the door opened again behind him. At first, he raised an eyebrow, amused, which earned him a furious look from the newcomer. 

__“Aldawen” he said with an amused smile, “this is a –nice surprise?”  
“I do not use my father's name, Prince Findekano”, said the she-elf, dryly.  
“Ah, nasty surprise then” he shrugged. “Arandilmë. Are you my guide? Or my guardian?”  
“I am the servant of the High King.”  
“We all are. Lead me to my rooms ... beautiful Arandilmë.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary
> 
> *helquendi: the ice elves (quenya) singular: helquendë.  
> *helxe-lai: the people of the ice (avarin dialect)  
> *helquedhil: the ice elves (Sindarin). singular: helquedhel.  
> *nauredhil: the fire elves (Sindarin)  
> *aranya: my king (Quenya)  
> *Aran Meletyalda: His Majesty (Quenya)  
> *indyo: grandson (quenya)  
> *Aldawen: forest maiden (Quenya)  
> *Arandilmë: friend of the king (Quenya)
> 
>  
> 
> Funny note: The Vanyar are called the 'elves of the spear', hence the House of the Sons of Finarfin has chosen a shield that identifies them with their Vanyarin heritage. Just for bothering Fëanáro, I think.


	4. I Helquendi (II)

“Stay awake. You cannot give up so easily. Head up, shoulders back, chest out -as Angaher taught you. Straight back, Prince Nelyafinwë. Your mother would be ashamed to see you like that.”

More than the words was the stern tone that made him recognize his interlocutor. For a moment, he thought seriously about sending him to fly; but when he opened his mouth, only a plaintive wail emerged, more like the whimper of an abandoned dog.

“It hurts?” repeated the same voice and a hand closed on his knee, squeezing so hard that for a moment Maitimo believed that his leg would fall off.

Why was he doing this to him? He moaned again as the only answer.

“Very well. If it hurts, it means it still works.”

For the first time, Maitimo detected that note of sarcasm addressed to him.

“You -are you -are you -torturing me ... _Pityakáno_?” He formulated with effort.  
“You're making it very simple, _Rusko_ ” the other laughed over his head. “Not to be said, Nelyafinwë, third in the line of succession to the throne! Will you let me win you in this? Your father won’t believe it when I tell him.”  
“I d-did not know -that we were -competing.”

For a few seconds there was silence and Maitimo wondered if he had left him alone. The coldness of the fingers on his cheek made him shudder; but also spilled relief in his chest as he understood that he would not abandon him. His partner's hand slid down the curve of his face until it rested gently under his chin. Firmly, he forced him to raise his head.

“We’ve always been competing, Nelyo”, said the other, the shadows hiding the upper part of the face so that Maitimo only glimpsed bleeding lips moving. “Now, show me that your father is right: for once in your life, prove you're better than me, Nelyafinwë Fëanárion, and get up.”

Accompanying the last words, the other raised his other hand and buried it in his side. The pain exploded in a blinding light inside Maitimo's head.

 

“He’s awake! The prince is awake!”

The scream erupted through the half-open door. Macalaurë - who until then stood at the window with his gaze fixed on the tops of Thangorodrim - spun around and ran to the next room, as he ordered:

“Look for my father!”

The bard stopped as soon as he crossed the threshold, contemplating the scene before him.

Maitimo fought in the arms of two healers, struggling to free himself while uttering terrible screams in a language that did not sound at all like Elf. The bandages had fallen and numerous wounds were open again. Blood covered the prince's body in equal measure to the clothes of the two poor females.

“Please, Prince Canafinwë!” The voice of the oldest she-elf, sinda judging by the style of her clothes, took him out of his reverie. “We need help to contain him or more damage will be done.”

Macalaurë nodded, swallowed and approached the bed.

Maitimo threw bites and blows like a beast. One of the healers had her mouth split and the other showed a breast because of the tear in her tunic.

The second son of the Noldóran made a move to intervene in the tumult; but when the hand ... no, when the stump that was once Maitimo's right hand lunged at his face, he recoiled in horror.

“My prince!” called one of the girls just before a kick from the wounded one threw her at the foot of the bed, writhing in pain.

Macalaurë approached again and this time, managed to sneak between the attacks to catch his brother at the height of the elbow. As soon as Maitimo felt this stronger new grip, he turned in his direction, growling and hissing horrible sounds. As Macalaurë observed him, bewildered, a smile curved his lips crossed by a scar and Maitimo pulled the other to catch him with his body. Horrified, the bard watched as he stripped his teeth to pounce on his face.

“Quiet!”

Maitimo stopped a few inches from his brother's face. His tense muscles showed that he was willing to finish what he started if he received the order.

 

Macalaurë did not move as he sensed that the newcomer was approaching the bed and was grabbing Maitimo by the shoulders to force him to release his prey.

“What is this, Russo?” demanded the other with a deep and severe voice. “Are you a beast to attack others without provocation?”

Maitimo hissed something in that strange tongue and Macalaurë, who had closed his eyes with relief, heard the sound of a slap. Immediately, the anger replaced any feeling and he got up to find Findekáno holding his cousin by an arm as if it were a schoolboy.

“What did I say about using that language with me, Russandol?” Findekáno continued speaking in the same tone.

For a few minutes, Maitimo shook his head, moving his lips as if trying to form words.

“Ne-never ... use -use it”, pronounced at last in a hesitant Quenya. “Just -just Quenya.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, the patient looked up at the Nolofinwion and a smile parted his lips, as if expecting a reward for his success.

“You don’t deserve a reward, Russo”, discouraged him Findekáno. “You attacked the healers and you almost bite your brother. You deserve a punishment.”

Macalaurë sat up, ready to jump on his cousin as soon as he raised his hand again; but instead of hitting Maitimo, Findekáno sank his fingers into the tangled messy hair and massaged it delicately.

“However, Russandol, I feel generous today”, added the High Prince, lowering his voice until it was a comforting whisper. “I will punish you not –as long as you let the healers do their work and you stay calm.”  
“You ... will you stay by -my side?” Maitimo asked, looking with wide eyes the dark face of his cousin.

Findekáno stood up as if to refuse; but finally he only made a slight gesture with his head and settled himself on the bed to hold Maitimo in his lap.

Macalaurë backed towards the door, fascinated and at the same time frightened by the absolute submission that Maitimo showed to the will of his younger cousin.

“What is happening here?” Fëanáro demanded, forcing his second son to turn on the spot.  
“Maitimo ... he ...”  
“Prince Nelyafinwë woke up, aran vuin”, informed the head of the healers. “And he became violent. High Prince Findekáno has controlled him so we can heal him and redo his bandages.”  
“Why is Findekáno ...?”  
“He’s holding him, my lord”, the gray she-elf raised an eyebrow, probably wondering what else the king thought the young man was doing.  
“Why he and not you, Canafinwë?” demanded the Noldóran to his second son.  
“Because Nelyo tried to kill me, father”, declared Macalaurë, with feigned calm. “Findekáno makes him feel more secure. We’ll have to keep him close.”

The king's response was a low growl before starting to walk towards the bed.

As soon as Maitimo perceived another person's presence, he tensed in Findekáno's arms and went back, picking up the leg that was being bandaged.

“Quiet, Russo”, ordered his cousin. “Do you remember what we agreed? The young lady has not finished with that leg.”

Maitimo extended his leg again; but when Fëanáro leaned towards him, he let out a disgusted hiss.

Fëanáro left in the air the hand that he raised to caress his firstborn’s hair.

“Nelyo”, he called him with a tone that betrayed his effort to control himself, “it's me, little one. I am your father. Let me take care of you, boy.”

Silver eyes rose to him, suspicious.

“You're not a father”, he replied. “My father is dead.”  
"No, little one," Fëanáro agreed, getting a little closer so that he could see him better. “The wounds of the valaraukos healed a long time ago and I'm fine.”  
“You are a trick of Mairon”, growled Maitimo, taking refuge more in the hug of Findekáno. “Tell him to leave, Káno”, he begged. “Make him go! I do not want him to wear atto's face!”  
“Russo, why do you think it's a Mairon trick?” inquired the Nolofinwion, intrigued.  
“Because I saw when the Master destroyed his body, my father’s body. I saw him break it into pieces and throw it to the orcs. I saw how ...” He frowned, watching his cousin. “Don’t you remember, Pityakáno? You were with me. You held me so I wouldn’t fall in the vomit.”  
“Yes, I remember”, Findekáno nodded, and raised his eyes to the king.

For a second, Fëanáro observed his nephew, not understanding what he was asking. When he understood, anger seized him; but before he could externalize it, Macalaurë took him by the elbow, pulling with delicacy.

“Come on, father. Let Findekáno and the healers do their work.”

 

Fëanáro threw the cup against the wall, with a roar of anger. The wine stained the white stone wall, slipping to the floor like thin blood. The king watched the liquid drain and with a new scream, grabbed the ornate metal support that held the feathers and stilettos and gave it the same fate as the gold cup.

Macalaurë opened the door ... and closed it again when he saw a box of jewelry tools flying in his direction. The instruments crashed against the heavy sheet and fell to the tiled floor amidst the din. He remained clutching the doorknob, listening to what was happening on the other side.

“Just fucking enter, Canafinwë” ordered the king and Macalaurë opened cautiously.

For his peace, Fëanáro seemed to have satiated his desire to throw objects and now he remained with his back to the door, drinking directly from one of the blown glass bottles.

The musician scanned the room, raising his eyebrows when he saw the destruction.

“Maitimo is sleeping again”, he informed slowly. “He agreed to take a sedative and now he’s resting.”  
“In Findekáno's arms, I suppose”, hissed the Noldóran.  
“Uh ... in essence, yes. Findekáno is by his side at Annel's request.”  
“It should be me who supported my son”, declared Fëanáro leaving the bottle and leaning with both hands on the credence.  
“Annel believes that your presence would only have altered him more. Maitimo thinks you dead, father.”  
“I'm not dead!” he roared, turning around.

Instinctively, Macalaurë stepped back towards the door and Fëanáro clenched his fists on both sides of his hips, breathing hard.

“I'm not dead”, he repeated lower. “I'm sorry, Káno, it's -you cannot imagine how hard it is to not be able to help my son.”  
“I imagine”, Macalaurë mused, remembering the disgust he felt when he saw that his cousin was getting what he did not.  
“I did not just leave him to that monster; but I'm totally useless now. I'm supposed to protect him; but instead, my presence alters him. My presence alters him, Canafinwë! I held him in my arms when I was a baby! I fed him! Nelyo slept in my lap! And now that damn kid is taking care of him!” He winced in pain as he turned around again. “It is not enough that Nolofinwë steals my father's love, now his monster-kid steals my son from me.”  
“Ah ... it's not like that exactly, father. Maitimo doesn’t know that it is Findekáno who is with him.”

Fëanáro turned in front of him, frowning.

“What do you mean? He called him Káno.”  
“Pityakáno”, corrected Macalaurë, slowly. “It's -it was Nolofinwë’s nickname when we were kids, in Tirion. Maitimo called him Pityakáno and he called him Ruskoo in correspondence. I was Cirinci.”

The Noldóran watched him with a slight frown.

“You mean” he said after a moment, “that Nelyo thinks it is Nolofinwë who is with him now.”  
“I think so. Although I can’t imagine why he has that idea.”  
“Unless -unless he too was shown him during his captivity, as he was shown my death.”  
“He is convinced that Nolofinwë lives and that he is a prisoner with him in Angamando. I think he even believes that they are still there and that our uncle is in charge of taking care of him.”  
“What does the healer say? The sinda.”  
“She says that it is possible that Nelyo has taken refuge in childhood memories to protect himself from -from reality”, he shrugged. “Also ... she also said that sometimes souls do not –don’t respond to Bannoth's call ... Mandos’ call! And on the contrary they stay -hovering in the world they knew.”

Fëanáro watched him with an impassive expression.

“Canafinwë, are you trying to tell me that the soul of the useless of my half-brother followed Nelyo to Angamando? To take care of him?”

Macalaurë bit his tongue, considering remembering his progenitor that, centuries ago, in Tirion Kôr, Nolofinwë had been their playmate.

“I’m transmitting all the possibilities that Annel gave me”, he explained calmly, making a pout.

Despite the circumstances, a smile curved the king's mouth.

“It would be the only thing I lacked: having to deal with the ghost of my half-brother.” Immediately, he became serious again and said: “Let Findekáno know that I want to see him as soon as he can leave Nelyo alone.”  
“You're going to keep him until Nelyo heals, right?”  
“I'm going to make sure Findekáno understands why he's here.”

 

Findekáno left the room and went to the alcove assigned to him by the king a week ago. He stopped before entering his bedroom and massaged his neck. Spending twelve hours with Maitimo hanging from him, digging his nails into every soft part of his body every time he had a nightmare, was not the idea Findekáno had when his uncle said he would stay until the Crown Prince recovered.

The young elf frowned as he sensed the essence of someone in his bedroom. Resting his hand on the door, he listened attentively to the faint sound of breathing on the other side.  
Macalaurë, he understood with a grimace. Hissing irritably inside, he opened the door and entered.

“Your father wants to see me so he can accuse me of stealing his son's affection”, he said without looking at his cousin.

Macalaurë opened his mouth and closed it again. He followed Findekáno's eyes as he kicked off his boots and unbuttoned his gray velvet doublet. The High Prince studied the blood stains on the piece of clothing and concealed a grimace of disgust when he realized that he could hardly save it.

“You knew I was here before entering”, it was what came out of Macalaurë’s mouth, who followed his cousin with his eyes.

Findekáno kept looking for a clean shirt and when he finally found it, he turned around in front of the Fëanárion. He held the clean garment between his knees and pulled the one he wore over his head.

Macalaurë watched fascinated the way in which the tanned skin tensed on the sculpturally defined muscles. Findekáno had always been athletic, even in the first youth there in the bliss of Aman; but now it was much more remarkable. Unlike the others, whose energy seemed to sleep in the slender limbs, Findekáno - even in the calm of the room and with fatigue reflecting in his blue eyes - seemed to be on alert, ready to jump over the danger to the slightest signal.

When the youngest slid the clean shirt down his arms and stretched it over his torso, Macalaurë looked away before their eyes met again, with the strange feeling of having been spying.

Findekáno noticed the reaction of his cousin and with difficulty, controlled the smile that pushed the corner of his lips.

“You breathe too hard, Macalaurë”, he explained at last, with a carefree tone. “All of you do it.”  
“We breathe too hard”, repeated the bard, in disbelief.

Findekáno put a finger to his ear and the Fëanárion remained silent while his cousin approached him with inaudible steps. The High Prince leaned over him to speak into his ear.

“It's the first thing that happens in the cold: your breathing slows down, as if you were sleeping. You must be very careful to differentiate if someone sleeps or if they already abandoned their hroa. You must listen carefully.”

Macalaurë felt Findekáno's voice in his ear; but it was as if he really spoke to him in his head, through osanwë, since no breath touched his skin. For long seconds they remained motionless. Suddenly, Macalaurë released the breath that had contained unconsciously.

Findekano's soft laughter caressed his cousin's skin before he walked away with a light walk.

“You learn to listen attentively on the ice, Macalaurë”, he continued saying as if nothing. “You see: the ice tends to break. A thick layer of ice can support a lot of weight; but a sustained weight is usually ... dangerous. Sometimes a small crack starts here and breaks miles away. However, while it is breaking, scarcely cracking the surface ... it produces -small crunches. Those little crunches are the only warning you receive before the ice sinks beneath your feet.”

Macalaurë watched him, his jaw clenched.

“Sorry.”

Findekáno turned around, holding a black silk vest embroidered in silver in one hand and a red doublet in the other.

“You can’t stop the ice from breaking, as far as I know. Your song of power does not reach there”, he declared without losing his poise.  
“The ships…”  
“Maybe it was good that you burned the ships”, smiled Findekáno. “I've thought about it a lot, cousin. Who knows if having reached Losgar, a fight between your father and mine had not broken out.”  
“I get it. So at least your father fell fighting with the enemies” Macalaurë nodded.

Findekáno looked at him for a few seconds and little by little, the smile transformed into a sensual and cruel grimace.

“My father could not have lived with the charge of conscience of having killed his brother”, he declared. As Macalaurë frowned and opened his mouth, he hurriedly asked: “What do you think I should use in my audience with the Noldóran? Red, the color of anger? Or black, the color of death?”

 

Maitimo felt the pain first. It was always pain first when waking up. However, this time, he forced himself to remember Nolofinwë’s words: if it hurts, it is still works. His arm hurt; but not his hand. He shook his head, with effort and tried to bring his right hand to his temples.

“I, in your place, wouldn’t try that.”

The quiet voice of Nolofinwë caressed his ear and Maitimo smiled despite the pain.

“How long did I sleep?” he asked. “Do we have to go back to work?”  
“You're not going back to work.”

Now he turned his head to look at him. As always, Nolofinwë remained in the shadows, his silhouette barely drawn; but Maitimo knew that he was not wearing the armor with which he had seen him for the last time before Angamando, after Alqualondë. His body was drawn thinner and no matter how hard the prince tried, he could not make out the abundant hair falling like a cloak.

“Did the Master cut your hair?” He asked, hesitant.  
“Does it matter?” Nolofinwë laughed, advancing one step out of the gloom.  
“Why do you say I won’t go back to work?”  
“You no longer serve for the forge”, said his uncle, coldly “A single-handed can’t work in the forge.”

Maitimo remained motionless. Single-handed? To his mind came the vague memory of being dragged out of the throne room, of the orcs holding him while other elves - slaves like him - secured a metal band to the wrist. He remembered Sauron smiling as he hung him from Thangorodrim and commented something about the resistance of his spirit ... and then came the singing. He listened to the song, the voice he knew of better days ... and the pain. Again the pain. Always the pain.

“Findekáno rescued me?” He asked in a low, weak voice.  
“Findekáno cut your hand.”  
“To save me” he insisted.  
“To take you to the king.”  
“ He came to find me. To save me.”  
“And he cut off your hand”, Nolofinwë reminded him.  
“Why…?” Tears now ran down his cheeks, silent. “Why me and not you?”

This time, Nolofinwë advanced until clarity washed over him completely. Leaning over his nephew, he caressed his temple with icy fingers.

“Because it was worth saving you”, he declared and blood gushed from his cut throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary
> 
> * Pityakáno: tiny commander (Quenya). Nickname of Nolofinwë in Tirion, only used by Maitimo and Macalaurë.  
> *Rusko: fox (Quenya) Nickname of Maitimo in Tirion, only used by Nolofinwë.  
> *Cirinci: small bird with a squeaky song. (Quenya). Nickname of Macalaurë in Tirion, only used by Nolofinwë.
> 
> *Angaher: Iron Lord (Quenya)  
> *Annel: gift with the female ending - the (Sindarin)  
> *aran vuin: my king (Sindarin)


	5. I Helquendi (III)

Arandilmë looked up from the bowl of food and frowned when she saw the soldiers who ran past the door of the room. Leaving the container aside, she stood up and went out while wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.  
“What's going on?” Asked while grabbing a guard by the neck of the tunic.

The soldier in question was a boy who barely exceeded his age and when questioned by the Captain of the Crimson Guard, he blushed and paled successively until he was as white as a lily and with red spots on his cheekbones.

“Th-the -avari, ma'am”, the soldier stammered.

Arandilmë raised her eyebrows. The avari? Why the hell would the soldiers run terrified by the presence of some avarin mountebank?

With a grimace of disgust, the she-elf pulled the boy back and started walking towards the patio.  
She stopped in the doorway, contemplating the scene. Well, it was clear that ' **that** ' was not an avar.

A dozen Noldorin soldiers wielded their spears and swords to surround a rider who evidently crossed the door before they could close it. The newcomer rode an isabela mare and wore all white, from the hooded cloak to the boots that fitted small, delicate feet. The rider controlled their mount only with the pressure of the knees since with one hand they held the hunting bow and with the other held an arrow of black feathers.

“What the hell is happening here?” Demanded Arandilmë, hands on hips.

Upon hearing her, the rider squeezed the sides of the mare, forcing her to stay still and raised their hand with the arrow to throw the hood back.

“Finally someone with a brain!” exclaimed, with little relief. “Can you tell these idiots to get out of my way if they don’t want me to make them a pincushion, Aldawen? And by the way, tell me where the hell my brother is.”

Arandilmë looked at the beautiful female, whose black hair, when discovered, had spilled in abundant curls on her shoulders. With an effort, she forced himself to order, firmly:

“Lower your weapons, soldiers, and show respect to Princess Irissë Arelda, sister of High Prince Findekáno.”

 

The young soldier gazed fascinated at the stunning female. He had received from Captain Arandilmë the order to accompany the princess as she communicated her arrival to the royal princes, since the Noldóran was on an excursion, hunting orcs.  
Irissë had shouted that she did not care about the king or his stupid children, that she wanted to see her brother; but the captain only bowed and hurried away.  
When the princess turned on herself, her eyes blazing with anger, the guard believed for a second that she would vent her anger on him; but after looking around like a caged beast, Irissë had been content to patrol from side to side, kicking some object from time to time and mumbling curses in the most bizarre Quenya the boy ever heard.

The male was enchanted: Irissë Nolofiniel was, with all certainty, the most gorgeous creature of Arda. Her clothes of an unblemished white highlighted her beautiful and long hair, as well as the radiance of her celestial eyes. Being too young, the boy had no memories of highPrince Nolofinwë or his wife, the beautiful Anairë; so he only sensed the deep resemblance between the female in front of him and Prince Findekáno.

After almost half an hour, Irissë turned suddenly and fixed her beautiful eyes on the soldier.

“Very well, kid”, she said, with a determined tone; “let's talk you and me. What’s your name?”  
“O-Ondion, my lady.” he stamped, straightening like his spear.  
“Mhn. So O-Ondion, tell me, is my brother a prisoner?  
“Pri-prisoner, ma'am? No! The prince ... the High Prince Findekáno is taking care of Haryon Nelyafinwë.”

A shadow crossed the young woman's features.

“High Prince Findekáno”, she repeated, with sadness. “Of course he is.”

At that precise moment, the room’s door opened to give way to two males.

Irissë looked at the newcomers and pressed her lips together.

At first, Ondion thought she would rush on them; but after a moment, a smile curved the princess's mouth and opening her arms, she said, with exaggerated joy:

“Tyelpe! What a joy to see you again! I'm so glad you're fine”, and passing by the nearest male, she embraced the king's grandson effusively.

Telperinquar remained petrified in the she-elf's arms. He fixed a cautious look on his companion and slowly, raised his arms to surround Irissë with them.

After a few minutes when Irissë almost lulled her cousin's son like an elfling, the young woman separated just enough to study his face. Her eyes - of a soft blue - traveled the features of the king's grandson, with affection. Despite the rage she still felt, Irissë could not find in her heart anger against Telperinquar: the boy was quite younger and when the whole boat thing was over, he had barely reached the age of majority. Irissë was not much older than him and in the past, in Valinor, she had been closer to him than to her cousins; but now - after everything that happened - Irissë looked at Curufinwë's son as if he were almost a son.

“You have grown a lot”, she said, gently. “Tell me: did you resume your training? You'll have to show me your workshop later.”  
“Of-of course ... _aranel_ ”, the youth nodded, confused. Irissë burst out laughing, amused.  
“What's that, Tyelpe? When have we been so formal?”  
“Never”, he admitted, smiling and resting his hands on the girl's forearms, he pulled her back to his chest to embrace her with more confidence. Then he moved away to watch her with affection. “You too have grown, I must say. You look more ... adult. And I heard that you kept our guard at bay without even shooting an arrow. I remember you used to hide behind my uncle when big animals approached.”  
“I’ve had to face a few large animals without having someone to hide behind in recent years”, Irissë shrugged. “And your mother? How is she?”  
“She lives in Thargelion, in the settlement of my uncle Carnistir”, reported Telperinquar. “I plan to visit her in the coming months. How long will you stay with us?”  
“I guess that’ll depend on whether the Noldóran plans to extend to me the same hospitality to my brother.”

At the comment, Telperinquar turned his head towards his companion and bit his lower lip, hesitating.

Irissë slowly moved away from the young man's embrace and also turned towards the other male.

“What do you think, Atarinkë?” She demanded sharply. “Will the High king force me to stay in the fortress or not?”

Curufinwë took a step in her direction, as if the fact that she were finally speaking to him was a signal to approach. However, the icy expression of Irissë forced him to stop, reconsidering his reaction.

“I do not think so ... cousin”, he commented calmly; “unless your presence is beneficial for Maitimo.”  
“Ah”, the young girl pretended then to understand; “that's why my brother is retained in Hísílómë: because his presence is beneficial for the haryon Nelyafinwë.”  
“Maitimo trusts him.”  
“Lucky that is the situation and not the other way around: Alkarinehtar could not trust his cousin even if he wanted to.” She shrugged and returned her attention to Telperinquar. “I'm starving. Can you offer me something to eat? When can I see my brother?”  
“Right now Findekáno is with Maitimo: it is time for his bandages to be changed”, Curufinwë informed instead of his son. “We have prepared the room next to your brother's to rest. I have arranged for you to have a bath and to have a snack and wine. If you like to accompany me ...”

Irissë watched him point to the open door behind him with a gesture.

"Tyelpe can come with me," she suggested, turning to address the younger one. “Isn’t right, honey?”  
“It will be a plea ...”  
“ Telperinquar has obligations to attend.” Curufinwë cut, abruptly.  
“Less than you, I imagine”, replied Nolofinwë's daughter, raising an eyebrow. “You're the regent in the absence of the Noldóran, right?”  
“It is one of my obligations to attend our guests.”  
“I'd prefer not to distract you from more urgent occupations. If your son can’t help me, then..." She glanced around the room and discovered the soldier still standing by the door. A smile curved the princess' mouth. “With all certainty, the young warrior will be up to the task.”

Ondion felt the flush rise to his cheeks in a hot wave. Irissë smiled, condescending, as she noticed it. Unfortunately for the boy, Prince Curufinwë also noticed his reaction to the girl's proposal and turned in his direction with clenched fists.

Ondion backed up against the wall, clinging instinctively to the horn of his halberd, when the wrath of the Noldóran's fifth son reached him with the force of a physical blow.

"The soldier will return to his duties now," Curufinwë roared in a low voice. “And Telperinquar will return to his work in the forge, where he has been absent for too long. I will accompany you to your rooms, Aranel Irissë, and I will pay you the honors due to a lady of the House of Finwë.”

Irissë pursed her lips, aware that it was not worth arguing with her cousin when he got like this. On the other hand, opposing the direct orders of the representative of the High King, amounted to an open rebellion and, although Irissë had no respect for the royal family at this point, did not want to make decisions without having consulted his older brother. Crossing her arms and adopting a negligent pose, was all the answer she gave to her cousin.

 

The young woman crossed the room with a glance, without showing the admiration that the sober elegance caused her.

Irissë knew her uncle for having an excessive taste for gems and the works of his hands. Right now, a fëanárian lamp adorned every corner of the room, replacing the usual torches and intricate golden patterns ran along the bare walls; but it was not possible to find the dazzling display of furniture and ornaments that almost crowded Fëanáro’s house in Formenos. People used to think that it was Nolofinwë who was more inclined towards luxury; but Irissë had spent enough time at her uncle's house to know better.

A desk with a low-backed chair and a full-length mirror attached to a wall made up all the visible furniture in the bedroom. Irissë was about to ask if they wanted her to sleep standing when her gaze landed on the thick curtain that separated the room in two. She approached and lifted it with one hand to discover a wide bed, capable of accommodating five elves of good stature without any problem.

A sarcastic smile tugged at the corners of the young woman's mouth: there it was! The hedonism of Fëanáro Þerindion, mentally outlined Irissë, traversing with her eyes the heavy velvet quilts brocade in gold, the multitude of silk-lined pillows, the carved wooden posts covered with white gold plates and with gems set. Evidently, Fëanáro had had time to load many things on his damned ships.

With a hiss of rage, Irissë closed the curtain and turned around.

“I hope everything is to your liking”, said Curufinwë at that moment, advancing a few steps to the center of the room.

“You promised me a bath”, Irissë reminded him, rudely.

A grimace contracted the pale lips of the prince and with long strides, he went to a side door, which he opened and with one hand indicated the next room.

“We still do not have running water”, he reported in a neutral tone; “but we are working on solving that difficulty. As soon as Moryo comes this season we can finish with the revision of the plans and start the works ...”  
“I don’t care.”

Curufinwë watched her, his mouth half open with surprise. Irissë had always been a pain in the ass; but this was too much.

“Excuse me?”  
“I. Don’t. Care, Atarinkë”, she shrugged. “I don’t fucking care if you and your fucking father build another Mindon Eldaliéva in this fucking place. I don’t care if Moringotto descends from his fortress and crushes you like the treacherous pigs you are. I don’t care if the wolves devour your corpses and your souls roam Endorë forever. You -you deserve all the pain that Mandos can send you.”  
“You do not mean that”, he shook his head, forcing himself to remain calm.  
“Yes, I mean it, damn it!” Irissë shouted jumping towards him with her fists clenched like claws at the height of her face. “I want you to die. I’d have been so happy to hear that you and your father were dead. You deserve to be dead!”

Curufinwë remained motionless, with his head erect despite the fact that his cousin's nails threatened his eyes like the claws of a crow. Calmly, he held his gaze to the young woman, who - after a few minutes in which she fought against her impulses - turned around and with a roar of anger, moved away from him.

The blacksmith watched her as she walked restlessly around the room and took a breath to say what was expected of him.

“I am sorry for the death of your brother and your father; but you can hardly blame us ...”  
“It's your fault!” She cried, turning back in his direction. “It's your father's fault that my brothers are dead. It's your father's fault that my father is dead. Dead, Atarinkë! _Dead!_ ”  
“My younger brother is dead!” He exclaimed, leaning forward as if ready to jump.  
“And who killed him?” Irissë challenged him. “Who set fire to the ships so as not to go in search of us? Who killed his own son in his eagerness to get rid of his brother? _His brother_ , Atarinkë! Do you have any fucking idea what that word means?”  
“You don’t know what you say!” He finally exploded, confronting her with sparkling eyes. “I understand loss and pain as much as you, more than you! Yes, my younger brother died when we set fire to the boats; but if your father had not been the traitor ...”

The words died on his lips when the blow turned his face to the side. The red mark of Irissë's fingers darkened rapidly on Curufinwë’s cheek.

For a few minutes, they remained in the same positions. Curufinwë straightened slowly, with the deliberateness of the panther preparing to attack; but Irissë did not back down. The hand with which she slapped her cousin trembled at her side; however, her eyes flashed with fury and pain - a fury like the prince never saw; a pain he could not imagine.

“My younger brother is also dead”, she declared, in a tense voice. “He hadn’t reached his majority when he fought in Alqualondë. Saironwë is dead.” Upon perceiving the frown of his cousin's eyebrows, a bitter laugh rose to her lips. “You did not know? Neither Finno nor I speak about it often. Turukáno drowned in the Helcaraxë: our first loss. The ice closed over him before we could help him meet his daughter. His wife is like a ghost without him: I doubt she is even aware that we have arrived at our destination. Don’t you dare to compare our pain, Atarinkë. Don’t you dare put on my father's shoulders the sins of yours.”

Curufinwë pressed his lips together, as if he wished to refute Irissë’s words, to silence her, to make her swallow her haughtiness. Irissë was only a child and could not understand ... but while thinking about that, Curufinwë remembered the desperation in which he himself fell when Maitimo and Tyelkormo managed to rescue his father from the attack of the Valaraukos. As long as Fëanáro remained between life and death, too weak even to stop Maitimo when he launched himself into Moringotto's ambush, Curufinwë had remained in the vicinity of his bedroom, too frightened to face the magnitude of his father's wounds, the possibility that he would not survive ... and at the same time, too anxious to get away, to take the risk of not being there when Fëanáro woke up.

With an effort, he forced himself to remember that the female in front of him had been his companion and friend, the only sister he knew. For a moment, the memories of all the times he made a jewel for her, in which he bought a bauble in the market thinking of her face of delight, in which he sat her by his side while he worked on one of his projects ...were painfully real and, with them, the understanding that he and Irissë would not be friends again. Among them rose - now and forever - the fire of the swan-ships, the corpses of Arakáno Tarkáne and Turukáno Saironwë, the ghost of Nolofinwë ...

The rumors had finally traveled to the royal family: the body of Nolofinwë had not been recovered by his surviving children; only his sword and his torn cloak. For a moment, Curufinwë tried to imagine his reaction if he were not able to recover his father's body, if he did not have the tangible proof of his death ... and the mere supposition was enough for the horror to close his throat, suffocating him.

“I'll leave you to rest”, he finally declared, retreating a few steps in the direction of the door. “The trip here is quite long and I guess you have not rested since you left. Does Findaráto know that you are here? And Lalwendë? I will send a message informing them that you are well ...”  
“Do you know what urcs do with their enemies’ corpses, Curvo?”

The prince stopped short. The anger had left Irissë's body and for the first time, he saw her again as he remembered her: a flower of crystal and silver; strong and at the same time, too fragile. He did not move, waiting.

Irissë dropped her shoulders as she turned her face away.

“ When we only found his sword, we believed -Finno searched until he couldn’t stand. Ingoldo and Aikanáro forced him to stop; but he didn’t want to give up. Even when the days passed and we didn’t find signs of him, we still had hope. We had not found his body, so there was a possibility ... a chance that he was still alive, that he had escaped. It wasn’t until the next time we came across those beasts that we discovered the truth. Finno went mad: the sinda who accompanied us believed that he was possessed by the Shadow. Lalwen had to drug him to calm down: even after killing them, he kept destroying their bodies, roaring as if he were a beast himself ...” She put a hand to her mouth to stop the sob. “We saw them, Curvo; we saw them when they -those monsters were -they were devouring them -devouring the corpses of our soldiers ...”

Curufinwë threw himself at her the moment Irissë bent over herself, bursting into tears. He wrapped his arms around her as they fell to the ground.

Irissë clung to Curufinwë's clothes as if it were her last hope. The crying flowed freely for the first time since arriving in Middle-earth. All this time, she had to show firmness to her people, to her brother, to her niece, to her potential allies, to her enemies ... and although she was not sure to consider her cousins again as friends, she did know that only with them she could be herself. Her nails riveted cruelly on Curufinwe's forearms, tearing at the skin and pulling at the same time. The sobs shook her body, like fevered tremors.

He held her in silence for a long time, holding her while she was shaken by desperate crying. He did not even want to think about the horror she had just confessed. He could not think of a comforting phrase capable of expressing his fright, his helplessness ... He forced himself to concentrate on combing the black curls with his fingers, massaging the scalp, sinking his fingers into the tense flesh of the neck and shoulders. Gently, he urged the young woman to move until she was sitting on his lap and rocked her tenderly as he whispered against her hair.

Curufinwe's voice went through the storm of pain. Irissë let that familiar voice soothe despair. After a few minutes, the crying gave way and she sat up, without looking up. Slowly, with sure gestures, she moved away from her cousin's arms and stood up. Curufinwë imitated her with agility and waited for her words.

"I'm going to take that bath," Irissë decided, her voice hoarse. “Please, send that message to my aunt: she must be worried and I don’t want Angárato and Aikanáro to appear here on the warpath. I ask you to communicate my presence to my brother: that he come and see me as soon as possible.”  
"It will be done as you wish, Irissë," he agreed, with a slight bow. “Tyelkormo will arrive tonight with our father. You want…?”  
“No”, she interrupted, turning again in front of him.

Curufinwë looked at her, bewildered and she denied, shaking her head.

“I don’t wanna see him. I don’t wanna speak with him. I don’t want to hear his stupid excuses and apologies. I don’t want his compassion.” She rubbed her temple, sighing. “And I don’t have the strength to fight him. If your father -if the Noldóran asks for my presence, excuse me with him until tomorrow ... please.”  
“As you wish”, Curufinwë nodded again and went to the door.  
“Atarinkë?” He stopped to watch her: Irissë made a pout. “We’re not friends. We’ll never be again.”  
“As you want”, he mumbled once more before leaving the bedroom in a hurry.

Irissë was left alone, not knowing what to do with herself.

 

Curufinwë ignored the greetings of the soldiers and servants on his way to the forge. With rough gestures, he tore off the elegant clothes and grabbed the hammer to get into the job. For hours, he just hit the metal piece, without giving shape or getting to elucidate in his mind the design of what he intended to create.

_"Do you know what they do with the corpses of their enemies, Curvo?"_

Irissë's voice, broken and desperate, pierced his mind, burning and shattering like nothing had ever done before.

_"We saw them, Curvo ... they were devouring them ... devouring their corpses ..."_

On an impulse, he released all the contents of his stomach on top of the anvil. He backed away, holding a hand to his mouth; but the image evoked by Irissë returned to be drawn clearly in his head and he bent over himself to vomit until the bitter taste of bile scratched his throat. With hesitant walking, he went to the work table and looked for one of the wine boots to drink in long drinks. He sat on the floor and rested his head on the leg of the table, still evoking the weight of Irissë's body, her uncontrolled tremors, her despair. Then, he knew: killing orcs was fine because they were the enemy; but now he had another goal.

He stood up, determined: he needed a better sword, one capable of cutting heads in one stroke. And he needed to talk to that Sindarin healer to teach him how to embalm them. He glanced at the anvil covered in vomit: but first he needed to clean up this mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary   
> * Arelda: Poor translation of Aredhel: Aredhel, in Sindarin means "noble elf" - ar- noble; edhel: elf -; Quenya would then be: Ar-: noble; elda: elf; Arelda better than Aranelda.  
> * isabela: Horse that has the body of cream color, and the mane and tail of a darker color.  
> * Saironwë: One that is wise.  
> * Tarkáne: Argon, the Sindarin name of Arakáno, is translated as "king's value"; in Quenya: tar, king; káne, value: Tarkáne.  
> 


	6. I Helquendi (IV)

Findekáno was sitting on the windowsill, with his shoulder leaning against the wall and one leg bent high while the other rested only the tip of his boot on the floor. In one hand he held a piece of wood in which he carved the figure of an archer with concentrated attention. From time to time, his gaze rose from the small sculpture and he went to the patio through the barred window. Despite his apparent distraction, the High Prince perceived his cousin's gaze fixed on him.

Sitting between the pillows that offered him support, Maitimo opened his mouth mechanically every time the apprentice healer approached him the wooden spoon; but his eyes were fixed on the elf in the window. Servants and healers had learned that it was much safer to deal with the Crown Prince when his cousin was near.

As Findekáno spent almost an hour in silence, without paying attention, Maitimo pressed his lips the next time the spoon approached.

The young she-elf (a noldë who barely came of age) forced herself to hold the food before the prince's lips. When Maitimo did not move, she dared to say:

“Haryon, please, it's almost over. A little more…”

Maitimo turned in her direction a glare of anger. How dare she speak to him as if he were an infant?

The girl recoiled when the convalescent bared his teeth in a rage.

“Maitimo, don’t.”

The prince concealed the joy that burst in his chest when he noticed that Findekáno was getting up and after leaving the knife and sculpture half done, he went to the bed.

The High Prince took the bowl and spoon from the apprentice and dismissed her with a soothing murmur. He sat on the edge of the bed and before he had caught the first spoonful, Maitimo opened his mouth and bent forward like a trained animal.

Findekáno raised an eyebrow and proceeded to feed him.

“Before, I was the one who fed you”, said Maitimo, letting the corner of his mouth rise in an attempt to smile.  
“It's amazing how things change from one day to the next”, nodded Findekáno, tiredly, while leaving the empty plate on the table.  
“You seem fatigued”, observed the older and advanced the right hand to touch him.

Findekáno's gaze fell to the stump and Maitimo hurriedly hid his arm under the blanket.

“You should rest”, suggested Findekáno, getting up. “Annel says that in a week or less you should be able to leave the bed and you will need all your strength for that moment.”

He went to the door, intending to call one of the servants.

“You want to leave, right?”

Findekáno stopped before opening and turned on his heels to watch him.

The bright red hair was a disaster when he rescued him from Thangorodrim: knots in most of the head and in others, the tufts ripped away until the scalp was raw. In order to heal him, the healers had cut their hair short and now a slight reddish fluff covered the perfectly rounded skull of the prince. A scar already white crossed the right cheek, sinking it before reaching the end of the mouth. The upper half of the left ear had been cut in such a way that it drew two points instead of one and a wound still in process of healing crossed the lips in transversal. And that was only in the face!

More than any other, Findekáno had had occasion to appreciate the traces of torture and years hanging in Thangorodrim. The most disgusting thing, however, was the eye of fire tattooed at the base of the column, just above the cleft between the buttocks: Findekáno preferred not to think about what the location of the brand meant.

“My sister arrived this morning”, he said, expressionless. “I haven’t seen her yet and I'm worried she has bad news.”  
“I mean ... I don’t mean right now. I mean ... " Maitimo turned his marked face marked in Findekáno’s direction. “You want to go back to your people ... get away from me.”  
“That's not true”, he denied without much conviction.  
“Why did you rescue me?” demanded the other, desperation thinning his voice. “Why did you risk going in search of me? Why did you go for me if you cannot stand or see me now?”

Findekáno frowned.

“What are you talking about?”  
“You think I don’t realize? The way you avoid looking at me, in which you avoid my contact. Do I make you sick? I know that everyone is afraid and disgusting. Even my father avoids entering the room ...”  
“Don’t be ridiculous”, the younger silenced him, going to his side.

The High Prince sat on the bed again and put his fingers under his cousin's chin, forcing him to look up.

“You see?” He said. “I'm not disgusted by touching you. You are my cousin, Maitimo.”

For a few seconds, Maitimo observed the blue eyes of the elf in front of him - the same one that he held in his arms so long ago, the one that learned from him the principles of grammar and archery, the one that slept in his bed thousands of times long before the darkness hit them - and again he raised a hand (this time the right one) to rest his fingers on his cousin's forearm.

“Why did you go to rescue me?” he sued lower. “Atarinkë says it was to negotiate with father. Tyelkormo hardly speaks and Macalaurë only observes me with pity and tries to hide the tears. But you –you’ll tell me the truth. Why did you go find me, Findekano?”  
“Does it matter now?” The youngest shrugged and leaned back slightly. “I went looking for you and I found you. I brought you with your father, with your family ... and soon you'll be fine, ready to take revenge for everything they did to you.”

Maitimo allowed himself to believe his words. Findekáno never doubted. The healers offered half hopes, always putting conditions for his recovery; but not Findekáno. Findekáno affirmed, as if he were capable of ordering Maitimo’s body to heal ... and probably he could, because Maitimo would do whatever he commanded.

“Will you be by my side?” he asked, clinging to his cousin's sleeve to pull him closer. “ When I make them pay, will you be with me?”  
“Of course.”

This time, Findekáno's voice carried rage and fierceness, a fire it did not possess in Valinor and Maitimo found himself holding his breath, afraid of the strength that had grown in his old friend during the years they were apart.

He dropped his hand to his lap and leaned back against the pillows, closing his eyes.

“Can I sleep now?” he asked, tired.  
“You can”, nodded Findekáno and leaned back.  
“Can I have a kiss?”

The Prince of the Silver Star observed his cousin, bewildered. Immediately, he hid the surprise that the request provoked and leaned over him to brush Maitimo’s forehead with his lips. Beneath him, a silent sigh left the half-open lips of the Fëanárion.

“Rest”, murmured Findekáno before moving away.

Maitimo had closed his eyes, like a child; but as soon as his cousin left the room, he opened them again.

“You know he love you not that way, right? That's not why he went looking for you.”   
Maitimo tightened the jaws to not respond.   
“If he loved you like that, he’d have fulfilled your wish: he’d have killed you when you asked for it.”  
“You’re dead”, Maitimo replied, refusing to turn around to face his uncle. “You are a hallucination.”  
“Same Findekáno doesn’t love you.”  
“He saved me.”  
“He needed you alive. A dead prince is not a good asset in a negotiation.”

He felt the other’s closeness to his side, the cold that always accompanied the illusions of Nolofinwë.

“You are dead. Everything you say is my fear talking.”  
“You are so naive, Rusko”, laughed his uncle’s voice, touching his ear: the cold fell to the bones of the prince. “How do you know that this - _all this_ -is not an illusion of the Master?”

Maitimo held his breath a few seconds. He had considered that option more than once since listening to his cousin's voice. After all, it would not be the first time that Mairon represented credible illusions to force him to speak: on one occasion he even convinced him that he was back in Hísílóme and Maitimo almost collapsed in the arms of his fake father ... before remembering that a few days before it had been Macalaurë who managed to enter Angamando and rescue him.

His heart faltered at the possibility that he was still in Angamando's cells, subject to Mairon's mental games. From one moment to the next, he would awaken with Gothmog’s claws hurting his flesh, with the marks of his raw whip, the valarauko's cock burning and tearing him because it was ‘the most efficient method of awakening a prince’.

 

A smile raised the corners of his marked mouth, discovering the empty space of the fangs and two teeth.

“What's so funny, little fox? Don’t you think it could be an illusion of the Master?”  
“You would never call him Master if you were really here”, he replied, smiling and adding: “Mairon would have made the mistake of kissing me in the mouth: Findekáno hasn’t done it. He is my cousin. This is real.”

He turned his face at last to find the empty pillow beside him. As expected, Nolofinwë was not with him ... because the dead do not accompany the living.

 

“Until you finally show up! I thought you had moved to Maitimo's bedroom.”  
“That would be a terrible idea if we took into account that I would have to sleep on the couch. What's wrong, Irissë? Why did you come?”

Irissë raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms under her breasts.

“I've seen Aldawen”, she said. “Captain of the Royal Guard.”  
“ Arandilmë, dear; she prefers her maternal name.”  
“It was to be expected: her mother was one of Fëanáro’s most fervent followers. Let her body rot in Uinen’s abysses.”  
“Vilwariniel's, I suppose. Arandilmë enjoys very good health and is many leagues from the sea.”

The young she-elf observed her older brother with a frown.

“Alkarinehtar”, she said sternly; “you're not going back to the same path, right? Aldawen ... or Arandilmë -or how the hell wants to call herself, is one of the followers of our uncle, one of those who left us to crawl to Valinor humiliated or died on the ice. You can’t be thinking of ...”  
“Irissë”, he turned towards her when he was already stripped of the blue silk tunic, “I will do what ...”  
 _"Is necessary to get those lands away from the throne of Fëanáro."_ He went on to mental communication. _"I hope that my devotion to Maitimo convinces the king of my loyalty and decides to reward me with the government of Dorthonion and Himring; but if such a thing would not work ... marrying one of his most loyal servants would be the least of the sacrifices. "_  
 _"You can’t. Love is essential for a bond to be established, "_ replied her sister, pursing her lips.  
 _"Do you think?"_ He scoffed. _"And if such a thing were true, do you doubt that there is more love in me than I feel for freedom and revenge?"_

Irissë hesitated a moment. During the dark years that they roamed the ice desert - long before the older ones remembered how to orient themselves by the stars - they had all changed; but Findekáno more than all. Irissë remembered the moment when she realized that it had been a long time since her brother laughed for the last time. Findekáno had taken responsibility for obtaining food and exploring the land. The girl knew that it was partly to get away from those who murmured that it was his fault they were there, in the middle of the ice, looking for death. Nobody would have dared to express such thoughts aloud: those who dared to do so at the beginning of the trip, faced the wrath of Nolofinwë ... and something that the Noldor who crossed the Helcaraxë did not stop being afraid was the anger of their leader. The betrayal of Fëanáro and his people had aroused feelings in the royal family that would never have blossomed in Tirion, feelings that perhaps could only thrive in a desert of ice.

_"I would prefer that you do not reach such extremes,"_ Irissë declared, looking for her brother's eyes. _"You don’t love Arandilmë and I know you would not make her happy."_  
 _"I can give her what she wants, little sister."_  
 _"No, you can’t give her the love that she always wanted from you. You couldn’t give it to her in Valinor ... She would be very stupid if she thought you could love her now, after all. "_  
 _"Do you think our cousin would love you less if you went to him now?"_

The princess took a few steps away from him. In spite of everything, they were still able to read in the other's heart too easily.

“That”, she said out loud, “is out of discussion. The friendship that existed between Tyelkormo and I will not exist again. He could never understand what I have lived and I will never forgive his betrayal.”

Findekáno watched her silently.

“Then”, he sighed at last, “what made you come running to see me? Did Ektëllo break someone's head? Or did Lauro kill all the orcs in the vicinity? Let me guess once again: Aunt Lalwen quarreled with the two old women again.”  
“Aunt Lalwen is preparing a visit to Círdan, the Lord of Falas. She wanted you to accompany her; but I don’t think you're going to leave this place soon. Angaráto became very protective with me -and Aikanáro doesn’t stop snorting around the corners because you don’t come back -I couldn’t stand another second there.”  
“I imagine. Tell me, what do you think about the center of power of the Noldóran?”  
“Quite modest for our uncle: it seems that he is finally using his head.”  
“ And ... Elenwë?” Findekáno inquired in a whisper. “How is she? She has…?”  
“Artanis takes care of her most of the time. Itarildë has moved in with Artaresto and his wife -supposedly to be closer to Lossefindil; but I suspect it has more to do with the fact that her mother ignores her. I've heard her talk during the night: Ingoldo says she talks to ... Turvo and ... that's ... normal in the period of mourning. Many of our people did it after losing a loved one.”  
“Talk to the dead. Because that's a lot of help, " Findekáno huffed. “Are you going to stay here? I'm going to take a bath and we can talk until I get back to my nursing position.”  
“A nice nurse you would have done if Father had forced you to study the healing arts.”  
“And you would have made a beautiful lady if mother had got away with it.”

Irissë showed her tongue in a childlike grimace and Findekáno erupted in laughter. When the young man came to the door that led to the bathroom, his sister called him:

“Findekáno? We need a bathroom.”  
“We don’t even have walls, little sister.”  
“Then, we need to build them. I'm demanding it. Did you know that Atarinkë and Carnistir are going to put running water in this hell? If you don’t want me to move here, build me a palace. With many spectacular bathrooms.”

The High Prince raised his eyebrows.

 

“Shouldn’t you be in the main room? Doing king’s things?”

Fëanáro ignored the childish voice that came from somewhere behind him. He was not for the nonsense of his younger brother. He returned to concentrate on the twisted crimps. Several of the necklace's gems had disappeared when the garment was trampled. The orcs did not show much appreciation for a good jewelry work; they preferred large, shiny stones, and gold in quantities. However, many plundered the Sindarin and Avarin villages hoping to find treasures to present to their master.

It was at that moment of his reflection that he realized that his half-brother could not be in his bedroom in Hísílómë.

He turned in his chair to find the boy standing with his hands behind his back.

The boy wore sleeping clothes and for a moment, Fëanáro considered that he was the son of one of the courtiers; but the blue eyes, slightly mottled in lilac, ruined the possibility.

“You cannot be here”, he declared with confidence.

Little Nolofinwë pouted and took a few steps towards him.

“I promised that I would go to where you were, brother”, he replied and smiled with affection, an expression that Fëanáro had not seen in the real Nolofinwë since he was this same age.  
“You cannot keep that promise anymore”, he denied, shaking his head. “And it was not you who promised it. Now, leave me alone.”

He returned his attention to the necklace, thinking that finding opals similar to the ones the garment wore was impossible; but maybe he could combine them with some emeralds ...

“Is it better this way?”

The Noldóran stood, hearing the adult voice, the same voice that demanded from Finwë to control his eldest son.

This time, he jumped up as he turned in front of Nolofinwë's ghost.

 

Empty. The chamber was empty and the cold air of the mountains came through the half-open window.

He went to the window and looked at the plain at the foot of the fortress, extending to the base of Thangorodrim. From the position of his bedroom it was impossible to see the region in which his nephew planned to settle once Nelyo was recovered; but Fëanáro did not need to see them to remember Dorthonion’s plateau or the frozen peaks of Himring.

Findekáno was right, he admitted once more inside. He needed the forces that the self-appointed ‘Houses of the Helquendi’ would provide him to have a chance to defeat the enemy. And, after all, sending his annoying nephews to patrol the border and be the first line before an attack by Moringotto seemed like a good opportunity to get rid of them.

Considering everything that was happening - and the way the few Helquendi had reacted to contact Fëanáro’s people - keeping Findekáno as a figure of power could be the best option. At least he knew that it was possible to negotiate with Nolofinwë's eldest son, while he was not sure what to expect from Arafinwë's sons. Although Findaráto was quite calm and Artaresto always seemed easy to manipulate, the other two and that little girl of Artanis were too proud and raptured to foresee their reactions. Having no news, he did not know what to think of Irissë ...  
“You should take care of her: she is less inclined to forgive than her brother.”

Fëanáro snorted, irritated.

“ All right. I have to hear you whispering in my ear now.”  
“I promised that I would follow you wherever you lead.”  
“That did not go very well, as I see it.”  
“Do you believe so? The only one who is not having fun here ... it's you, Finwë Curufinwë.”  
“I am alive.”  
“Are you implying that I cannot have fun because I'm dead?”  
“First you persecute Nelyo and now you come for me. Is it that Námo is punishing you?”  
“If this is a punishment, it's hilarious. I have no problem disturbing your hours of rest, brother Curufinwë.”  
“If you really expect me to pay attention, sacrificing my peace to attend to your idiocies ...”  
“You're talking to me. It's more than you would have done in Valinor.” Fëanáro made a face and leaned more on the window sill. A chill rose on the back of his neck as he felt the cold breath on his jeweled ear. “It is the disadvantage of the oaths, Fëanáro: they run in two directions; they bind the one who gives them and the one who receives them.”  
“I do not want…”  
“Aren’t those alarm torches? I don’t wanna seem paranoid; but I swear you’re being attacked ... brother.”

The king noticed the moving lights approaching the fortress. Nolofinwë - or his ghost ... or his own subconscious - was right: it was the night signal set to alert an orc attack.

Fëanáro turned around and ran out of the bedroom, ignoring the cold air that filled the room.

 

Findekáno followed the soldiers who left the fortress through a side door with his gaze. Even in the darkness of the night, it was easy for him to recognize Fëanáro leading the small troop. Without fuss, he recognized with a smile: the Fëanáro that he remembered would have blown the trumpets and warn Moringotto himself that he was leaving his refuge.

“Are we going to watch while they take the fun?”

The prince half turned to observe his sister.

“I guess you've been here for too many days”, he said, smiling.  
“Let's go, right?”  
“ We can’t leave the castle. Arandilmë ...”  
“Oh, Alkarinehtar, don’t come with those. As if we had never come out of a window.”


	7. I Helquendi (V)

Most of the Noldor lived within the walls; but some had established their dwellings in the outskirts, near the Sindar who came when the new force from the East arrived to confront the Dark Enemy.

In the times before the arrival of the Nauredhil, the force of the Shadow had grown and more and more hordes of orcs were leaving the Smoky Mountains to raze the Sindarin villages. Those who did not live in the protection of Queen Melian's spells were at the mercy of the enemy and the appearance of powerful Western relatives was a blessing to them. Although many were not convinced to trust the newcomers, the precept that "the enemy of my enemy ... serves my purposes" remained valid.

It was common that every two or three weeks a troop of orcs descended to the lands of the Noldóran, seeking slaves and riches to take back to Angamando. However, in the last station there had been no attacks, which had affected that many of those who lived outside the walls relaxed. For that reason, when the attackers fell on the first village in the middle of the night, the warning lights did not turn on.

By the time Fëanáro sighted the torches, the enemy had moved to the second line of dwellings and surprised the inhabitants again - mostly gray elves. By the time the king arrived at the scene of the battle, only two or three defenders remained standing and the houses had been looted before their helpless eyes.  
At that moment, Fëanáro forgot that less than two years ago he barely managed to breathe without his whole body breaking with pain. Unsheathing his sword, he pounced on the nearest orc and decapitated it with a blow.

The beasts noticed the new troop of elves and turned towards them, emitting incomprehensible sounds. Fëanáro hated those sounds as much as those who uttered them: it was the same wild language in which Nelyo shouted during his nightmares. With a roar of anger, he charged against them, trampling two creatures in his advance and only stopped when his horse was surrounded. Standing upright in the stirrups, the king twirled the sword in his hand and slashed at the attackers.

The score of soldiers who followed the Noldóran followed suit and the survivors of the inhabitants were able to take a breath before running after the small troop that withdrew taking the spoils.

Bodies fell around the elven king as easily as new adversaries emerged. For a moment, Fëanáro wondered where they were coming from ... until he realized that the attacking force was greater than they supposed at first; but a good part remained in the shadows, waiting for the fall of his companions to attack.

The Noldóran was surprised by that discipline when the orcs were known to attack blindly and savagely, their main tactic being to destroy. He considered the possibility that a valarauko was directing the expedition; but the power of such a creature would not have gone unnoticed.

Fëanáro jumped when one of the huge blades went past his leg. His horse shifted sideways, crushing a dying orc between its hooves, and the king bent to dodge a second attack as he swung his sword and cut the adversary from shoulder to waist.

Immediately, a dozen creatures emerged from the shadows behind the buildings to pounce on him.

A barrage of arrows - shot with absolute precision - knocked the orcs down before they went beyond their hiding place.

Fëanáro looked at the blue and black feathers of the arrows and turned slowly to see two elves squatting on the roof of one of the looted houses. With her immaculate clothes, the female was a perfect target in the middle of the night. Beside her, the male was barely visible in his dull attire. Both young people stood up and without taking momentum, left the cornice in an ethereal jump.

Even before landing, Irissë took another arrow and fired in the direction of the Noldóran. Fëanáro did not move while the orc behind him collapsed with a gurgle.

Findekáno ran to the group of Noldor and touching his eyebrow in greeting as he passed by the king, followed by those who chased the orcs that were moving the booty. While running with steps that seemed not to touch the earth, the High Prince prepared his bow and fired over the pursuers.

Those responsible for protecting the proceeds of the plunder were few and before Findekáno came to them, they all lay knocked down by his arrows.

The survivors of the town had been joined by several of the castle's soldiers and among them they freed the prisoners. Findekáno proved that only females and infants were counted among the captives. He frowned: he had heard before from the Sindar that sometimes only the children and the females were taken to Angamando; but for what? The children were not strong enough to work in the mines and the females could not be used as breeding beasts since the elves could leave their bodies if they wanted it once the violence was used on them. Unless these prisoners had another destination.

The image of the discovery he made in the woods, years ago, stirred his stomach and reddened his vision. With a savage hiss, he rushed at an orc that crawled to the safety of the forest and unsheathed the hunting knife in his thigh, cut his throat with one blow. But his vision was still red and in front of him only saw the blue coat of his father, torn and bloodied ... He plunged the knife to the hilt in the neck of another orc that was getting up on his knees to tear the arrow from his chest. He turned around to stab the creature that emerged from the forest and grabbed an arrow from the quiver, used it as a knife to stab it in the orc's eye.

“Findekáno!” screamed Irissë, frightened, to see how the madness returned to seize his brother.  
“Quiet!” ordered his uncle, dismounting.  
“Don’t you dare give me orders!” Roared the girl, moving away from him to launch where Findekáno was being surrounded.  
“And you do not dare to disobey me, girlie.” He grabbed her by the arm and shoved her into the arms of a guard. “We have much to talk about when we return to Mindon Ehtele.”

He turned back to where his nephew was still facing along the orcs that emerged from the forest.

The nearby elves wielded their weapons; but they did not dare to approach for fear of falling victim to the blind wrath of the High Prince. Finally, one of the newly freed elves tore the sword from the hand of a companion and pounced on one of the beasts.

 

Blood. All Findekáno could see was blood, the perfect red blood covering his arms, his face, Arakáno's throat cut, the eyes without light of his younger brother, the belly opened by impossible weapons ... and then the void.

Did he go through the Helcaraxë for this? Had he watched helplessly as Turukáno sank into the northern sea for this? Had they survived the cold, the hunger, the desperation ... _for this_? There were times when the pain was so deep that Findekáno thought he would not wake up. There were times when the darkness was so thick he could touch it and the cold froze his own breath. Then, when the silver disc rose in heaven, they regained hope and then the circle of flames came. Ithil and Anar. The pardon of the Valar, many murmured; but the truth ... the truth was that they were the lights that would guide them to revenge. Only he had understood the promise in his father's eyes ... and only he would fulfill it when the time came. Meanwhile, the only way to stay warm was to bathe in blood.

The orc clung to his clothes, uttering dark words, which awoke new memories in him. Words like those had come from the lips of one he loved long ago.

“ _Akûl-hai ..._ ” the orc growled, scratching the base of the prince's neck with his black nails. “ _Zan kurv ..._ ”  
Findekáno raised an eyebrow, without understanding and slowly, put the knife in the throat of the monster and slid it to the full width. The almost black blood gushed from the wound and from the cut lips of the orc, staining the prince's clothes.

He dropped the body, which was shaking convulsively and waited for the next attack.

“ _Heruamin ..._ ”

He turned as his hand shot into his enemy's throat. The knife stopped, touching the white skin and a trickle of red blood - red as rubies - slid down to the neckline of the shirt, between trembling breasts.

“Findekáno!” thundered the Noldóran's voice a few steps away.

Findekáno blinked as if he were coming to his senses and stared bewildered at the brown eyes that watched him with respectful fear. The young female in front of him had dropped the sword and raised both hands to her head in surrender.

“Why are you giving up so fast?” he smiled, lowering the knife. “You could have killed me with a single blow.”  
“ I want you no hurt”, she denied, confused. “You saved us, my lord.”  
“You are sinda”, said Findekáno. “The High King has saved you. I just came for fun.”  
“But you are the one killing guruthos,” she explained.

Findekáno frowned and looked down to see what the girl indicated.

Ten paces away from him lay a small body, much thinner than the rest of the orcs, covered by a dark chainmail. A mask of bone - carved in the shape of a fox - covered the upper part of their face and red hair with white strands spread around them like an aureole.  
The young noldo approached the corpse and found that his knife had pierced the armor several times in the belly. One look was enough to verify that it was a female and Findekáno squatted down to remove the mask. Before him an obviously Elvish face appeared, dark eyes opened and veiled by the shadow of death.

“It's ... one of us”, he whispered, surprised.  
“Laegel”, corrected the young woman behind him. “Or better, once one of the Laegrim.”  
“Green Elf”, Fëanáro understood, who had arrived with them.  
“Elf no more”, denied the girl, shaking her head energetically. “Guruthos, servant of the Watcher. Assassin and leader of the yrch to come down from the Smoky Mountain. They hunt children and females for their master.”  
“Guruthos? Death's shadow?” Findekáno repeated.  
“Assassins. Hunters. No yrch, no elves.”  
“Nuruhuinë”, Fëanáro translated the term used by the sinda into Quenya.  
“That's ... almost poetic”, smiled his nephew.

The sinda stared at him, raising dark brows. She took a step in his direction and extended a hand.  
Findekáno was startled when the girl's fingers brushed the base of his neck.

"Wounded, my lord," she said, noticing his reaction. “We cure. Thiadeth good healer.”  
“Are you Thiadeth?” he smiled.

The blush covered the cheeks of the young woman, who was quick to deny while withdrawing her hand.

“Lhenniloth”, she said softly.  
“You are also hurt”, Findekáno indicated, shortening the distance between them. “And I apologize for that.  
“We will go to the castle”, the king intervened in his conversation and turning to the girl, continued in Sindarin: “Although we appreciate your offer, my nephew and I must attend to urgent matters. You will accompany us to receive care and rest tonight. Tomorrow we will begin to rebuild your homes. Many of these children lost their family at all. Some come from the other village, right?” Lhenniloth nodded. “We will take care of them. Findekáno, follow me. That scratch will not kill you if you walk back to Mindon Ehtelë, I hope.”  
“No, it will not, aranya.” The young man laughed and started walking behind the king.

 

Findekano watched the door through which his sister had just left with the fury of a gale. The soldier assigned to watch her seemed intent on saying something to the Noldóran; but as this one observed him from above - as he would do with an insect - the boy babbled an incoherent politeness and ran after the princess.

“I understand your impulse to go to face the enemy”, began Fëanáro as soon as he was alone with his nephew. “What I do not understand is your lack of good sense in dragging Irissë into danger. Your sister could have died ...”  
“She could also have died in Alqualondë. Or in the Helcaraxë. Or in the first battle we faced upon arriving at Endorë.” Findekáno shrugged. “It's a bit late for those contemplations ... dear uncle.”

Fëanáro squeezed his jaw to avoid throwing himself on him and hitting him until he put some sanity in that beautiful head.

“I do not speak moved by a late feeling of fraternal love, Findekáno”, he declared, calmly.  
“I’d never have dreamed such a thing, my lord.”  
“Irissë is ...”  
“The only female of marriageable age in our family. Besides Artanis, of course; but first you would prefer to offer one of your children to potential allies than to deal with her once more. If my sister were dead, you would lose an unparalleled opportunity to negotiate with the leaders of the elven clans that could be your allies.”  
“Elwë has only one daughter”, replied Fëanáro, squinting.  
“And two good-looking nephews ... uh -grandchildren -nephew-grandchildren of virile age.”  
“For no reason I would marry a female of my blood with one of those cowards who hide under the skirts of a slave of the Valar”, spit the Noldóran, away from his nephew.

Findekáno raised his eyebrows, amused by his reaction. At least that assured his sister's freedom. The scratches on his neck began to sting; but the king did not seem willing to let him go without a reprimand.

“Irissë”, Fëanáro recommenced after pouring himself a glass of wine and emptying it in half; “is your heiress. If you died, she would be the High Princess of the House of the Silver Star.”  
“I thought you did not approve that the females ...”  
“Even if it was that way”, he turned in front of him, “I do not think that matters to your people ... the helquendi that have been reunited with the roots of our race during their pilgrimage. Yes, I've heard interesting rumors”. He noticed that his nephew's eyes darkened and a smile curved the king's mouth. “And tonight I had the opportunity to see how one of our people has been reunited with the "bloodsong". It's something I never dreamed of witnessing during my daydreams in Valinor.”  
“Are you considering ... deposing me, my king?”  
“ No. That would not be -convenient right now. But in the event that you fell during one of your trances, Irissë would be your only heir.”  
“Unless I beget an heir, right?”  
“You do not seem to be in a hurry.”  
“Would you be calmer if I have a boy, uncle?” Findekáno narrowed his eyes, thoughtful.  
“I do not want power struggles when one of those ... nuruhuini cut your neck.”  
“ But an heir needs something to inherit. Lands, I would say.”

Fëanáro squeezed the glass. Once again, Findekáno had taken the negotiation to his side of the scale.

“Annel says that Nelyo will leave the bed in two weeks if he continues as he goes. By then, you will be free to return with your people ...”  
“To my tent. To the lands of the sindar who welcomed us when we frightened the orcs who were persecuting them.”  
“And you'll be on your way to Dorthonion.”  
“Himring to build my dwelling. And Dorthonion for the House of Finrod. Lalwen will remain by my side with all certainty.”  
“I want to rest knowing that the House of Findekáno will be faithful to me and will come when the time comes to face the Enemy.”  
“In a year from my departure, I will return to swear allegiance. Findaráto and Írime will accompany me. And I will leave here united in marriage to a female of your House ... my king.”

The Noldóran watched him in silence. After a few minutes when neither of them moved, he filled his glass again and poured out a second glass, which he handed to his nephew.

“Arandilmë will be ... happy to hear it”, he declared.  
“Of course she will: that girl has always been crazy about me”, smiled Findekáno and taking a step towards him, hit his glass with the king’s before emptying it with a blow.  
“Go get your neck healed.” ordered Fëanáro. “It could become infected.”

 

Fëanáro leaned back in his seat, staring at the closed door, long after Findekáno left with his peculiar light gait.

If he had not seen him, he would not have believed what happened with his nephew. In a second, Findekáno - the same Findekáno that he remembered slipping into Nelyo’s room through the window, the one that hung from the dress of Indis with hands dirty of sugar, the one that climbed like a cat up to the shoulders of an elegant Nolofinwë , the one who carved bouquets of perfumed wood for Nerdanel, the one who tugged at Mahtan's beard the first time he saw it to the horror of his mother – that same Findekáno had transformed into a bloodthirsty beast, a creature unable to stop while it remained a body that stabbed.

The "bloodsong". Fëanáro had listened to some Unbegotten to talk about the fever that consumed the old soldiers before the Great Journey, in the borders of Cuiviénen. With time, it became impossible to control these warriors and they had to move away from the villages; but after they migrated to Valinor, no elf had returned to succumb to the "bloodsong", a call that only slept in some elect, a song that not everyone could sing without going mad.

How much time would pass before Findekáno should be isolated from everyone? Maybe putting a female in the vicinity of such a risk was a terrible idea, after all. Fëanáro considered the danger in which he would place one of his most loyal servants; but then he dismissed the remorse. Worse things had been done for this war, and still more would be done. If Arandilmë was the price to count on the bloody fury of Findekáno when the time to fight come, it was a price that the Noldóran could pay.

Now he needed to take care of Irissë. If the day came when she became High Princess, Irissë should know her obligation as well as her older brother did. And marrying her to one of those stupid forest puppets was not an option.

"And -I don’t even need to be a ghost to disturb your quiet hours," the laughing voice said next to his ear. “Who is having fun now ... big brother?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary  
> * Akûl-hai: people of the ice; zan kurv: elf bitch. Orkish.  
> * Guruthos: shadow of death. Sindarin.  
> * Lhenniloth: sweet flower. Sindarin.  
> * Mindon ehtele: the tower of the spring. More or less that means Barad Eithel in Sindarin and I doubt that the Noldor have used a Sinda name without having their own in Quenya.  
> * Nauredhil: elves of fire. Sindarin. S. nauredhel.  
> * Nuruhuinë: shadow of death. Quenya. Pl. nuruhuini.  
> * Thiadeth: apparition.


	8. I Helquendi (VI)

According to Annel's predictions, the Crown Prince left the bed before two weeks of the orc attack had passed.

At the beginning, Maitimo's greatest achievement was moving to the armchair next to the window; but as the days progressed, the convalescent extended his trajectory and by the time two more weeks passed, he could move around the room without help. There was still the problem of learning to use the left hand for such elementary questions as feeding, buttoning the tunic or turning the handle; however, Maitimo did his best to show that he was capable of doing these things and with the constant presence of Findekáno at his side - scolding, correcting, flattering - the advances began to be noticed. It was still too early to consider the idea of a prosthesis; but, already Fëanáro and Curufinwë worked in the first sketches.

In view of the constant improvement of Maitimo, the High Prince Findekáno began to prepare his departure.

 

Irissë had left the day before, escorted by Telperinquar and a patrol of riders, since the Noldóran demanded that his niece receive the honors due to their position. Despite the loud protests of the daughter of Nolofinwë, nobody paid attention to her.

Findekáno recalled his sister's sulky expression as she picked up her few belongings and cleaned her weapons. A knock at the door forced him to straighten up, surprised.

Arandilmë entered the bedroom as if it belonged to her, with a sure and almost virile step; but when her gray eyes fell on the naked torso of the prince, she stopped short and the flush dyed her cheeks.

“You should tell me you were not in a position to receive me!” she exclaimed, turning around.  
“You gave me no opportunity to answer you, precious Arandilmë”, he smiled, mockingly. “But you can turn around: your modesty is safe.”

The she-elf half turned her head to see from the corner of her eye that Findekáno had put on the gray linen shirt that a moment before had been lying on the bed. Only then did the young woman turn around in front of him and her attention drifted away to the weapons deployed on the table.

“Are you preparing to leave?”  
“My commitment to the king has been fulfilled: Maitimo is safe and I return with my people.”  
“But the Noldóran said that ...”

Findekano watched her, raising an eyebrow, as the young warrior broke off, blushing a second time.

“What did my uncle say? Did he say that I asked for your hand in marriage, Arandilmë?”  
“More or less. I thought it was a joke in bad taste ... but he said you two had reached an agreement.” She studied him with increasing interest. “Apparently, I'll be the High Princess of the Helquendi.”  
“You won’t be High Princess of anybody because you don’t own real blood”, the male replied coldly and turned his back to start collecting weapons with calculated calm. “You’ll be my wife, if that title suits you. You will be the king's spy in my lands and you will be proof that my uncle has accepted our conditions. Well, with all certainty you will be the mother of my heir.”  
“I will not marry you, Findekano.”

The prince straightened up and turned again in front of her, holding the naked faca. Instinctively, Arandilmë put his hand on his belt before remembering that she was not wearing the sword. The story of the "bloody rage" that possessed the High Prince had run quickly among the inhabitants of Mindon Ehtele - especially thanks to the admired stories of the Sindar who were rescued from a fate worse than death.

At his reaction, a faint smile twisted the corner of the prince's mouth, deepening the scar on his cheek.

“Are you going to disobey your sovereign, Arandilmë?” He questioned her. “I thought you more loyal.”  
“Precisely because I'm loyal to him is why I will not become the wife of a traitor.”

The smile did not leave Findekáno's lips as he played with the knife, twirling it between his fingers. Slowly, he stopped the twists of the weapon and placed it gently on the table.

Arandilmë followed the masculine movements without changing the defensive attitude. She doubted that Findekáno would dare to attack her in the castle of the High King himself; but she also remembered that the prince she knew - and loved - in Valinor had been buried under a layer of blood and ice.

A cry of surprise escaped the girl's lips when Findekano's hands seized her - one around her wrists and the other, holding her face. The next second, the prince explored her mouth with tongue and teeth, forcing her to moan in protest.

Arandilmë writhed in the young man's arms, struggling to escape; but all she got was being pushed until her legs hit the bed. She fell sprawled, trying in vain to kick or release her hands. Findekano's mouth insisted on hers, biting, invading and licking as if he had every right. The heat spilled inside the female, anger and desire twisting in a pulsing spiral.

For years, this scene had filled her dreams: to be in the arms of Findekano Nolofinwion, to be the object of his caresses and desires ... A cry of capitulation erupted from her throat as she arched her back to feel more of the hard body that covered hers. And then, the cold hit her - her parted lips drinking the emptiness, her aching forepaws stinging, her stomach trembling with anticipation.

The girl sat up on the bed, breathing raggedly. Her gaze found the broad back of the prince. Disconcerted, she wondered if he regretted losing control ... or if he expected her to take the initiative now.

“That makes clear your complete acceptance of your future role”, declared Findekáno, turning in front of her. “For what I need you, this will work.”

Blush colored Arandilmë's face as if he had slapped her. With one bound, she stood up with fists clenched on both sides of her body.

“You will not ever put a hand on me.”  
“Of course I'll do it. How else do you expect us to legitimize our union?”  
“I will not be your partner!”  
“I never said you would be. You will be my wife, the mother of my heir.”

This time, the captain of the Royal Guard considered the words of the prince carefully before replying, quietly:

“You don’t love me.”  
“But you do love me”, he smiled, raising an eyebrow, mockingly.

Arandilmë felt an acid tide rise inside her, fill her throat.

Upon hearing of Noldóran's decision, the joy had obscured any thought in her - an insane, outsized joy, tinged with the dreams of the adolescent that was in Tirion and the desires of the female that was forged in Endorë. But that joy lasted very little: just the time it took to remember everything that had happened since the departure of Aman. Findekáno, even with his eternal smile and his heroism drawn from ancient songs, was the enemy. A part of her expected Findekéno to keep something of the young prince who enchanted her, hoped he would reject a union without love. In this, as in everything else, she had been disappointed.

“You are a…”  
“Ah-ah-ah”, the elf restrained her, raising his eyebrow pierced by the small white scar. “Let's not start with compliments because we’ll never end. I was about to take a bath: do you want to join me? It is time for us to start forging ties.”

The she-elf gritted her teeth and, turning in place, left the room in long strides. Just as she was back in his room, she blinked furiously until tears of rage rolled down her cheeks.

 

It had been a month since the Crown Prince left the bed when Findekáno finally received permission from the monarch to return with his people. He did not wait for a repeation: in a matter of hours he had picked up his travel bag and crossed it over his shoulder, hurrying to prepare a horse for himself.

It was mid-morning and Findekáno knew that the trip would take several days, so the sooner he got on the road, the better.

“Father said that he had given you permission to return with yours: I did not think you were in such a hurry.”

Findekáno turned around. His hand held the reins, ready to jump on the animal's back.

Maitimo was leaning on the jamb of the stable door. A dark coat covered his shoulders, disguising to a certain extent the slack of the clothes.

Findekano's gaze was inevitably drawn to where his cousin's right hand must be: the arm was hidden by the heavy folds of the woolen garment. The young elf pushed to the bottom of his person the tiny blast of guilt that was beginning to form: one hand less between those that set fire to the swan ships of the teleri.

“Can you imagine what could have happened while Ingoldo and his brothers were in charge of our people?” he pointed with ease. “Aunt Lalwen must be on the verge of a mental breakdown.”  
“I know you have obligations as lord of your House”, Maitimo nodded calmly. “But I hoped that at least we had until tomorrow to -say goodbye.”  
“You say it as if we were never to see each other again”, Findekáno shrugged. “As soon as you have Annel's permission to ride, we will meet for a hunt.”

Maitimo nodded slowly and looked outside. Findekano returned to make sure the horse chair was securely tied, waiting for the other to add something else. Instead of speaking, Maitimo returned his attention to the younger one and followed his movements with interest.

“Tyelkormo says you've reached an agreement with father. About the lands in which ... yours will dwell.”  
“The High King has given me the government of Dorthonion and Himring, in the first line of defense of our territories.”  
“He has also given you a wife, as I heard.”

Findekano did not notice the sharp tone with which Maitimo made the last observation.

“Ah, as much as giving it to me -Arandilmë would not like us to talk about her as a commodity. Another reason why you mustn’t worry about our farewell: in a year or so, I will be back to celebrate my wedding with sweet Arandilmë.”

Maitimo let out a snort that sounded sibilant because of the absence of his teeth.

“Arandilmë is anything but sweet.”  
“Try she doesn’t hear you praise her like that or she will reject me for you.”  
“You seem ... satisfied with the course of events. I never noticed that you had feelings for her.”

Findekáno tilted his head on one shoulder. With his strength, Maitimo had recovered his old way of being - at least during the day.

“That's because I didn’t”, the youngest shrugged.  
“And now you do?”  
“Our laws say that the union between two elves is celebrated by love or by mutual agreement between the two parties, Russo”, he reminded her with extreme sweetness.  
“And you agree.”  
“And Arandilmë is in love. Is not it a perfect combination?”

Maitimo clenched his fist in the folds of his coat. A chill ran through him.

_He does not love you that way._

The words uttered by Nolofinwë's ghost crawled in his mind, leaving a furrow of fire.

_But he does not love Arandilmë either,_ he reminded himself, recovering his calm. _Maybe he’d never love her. It is not necessary to love someone to create a family, to produce an heir._

“What if…? What if one day you find someone to love?” He ventured.  
“Princes don’t do those things”, smiled Findekáno, naughty. “Princes don’t fall in love, we don’t find someone to love and follow the dictates of the heart. Haven’t you learned it, Maitimo? We princes follow the course of what is best for our people.”  
“But -but if it happened -if you got to ...”  
“Oh, then I'll have the chance to enjoy a lot of good sex with that someone”, he ended with a careless sigh and jumping, rode the horse.

Maitimo watched him, throwing his head back slightly.

“When I'll see you?”  
“When you are able to ride,” declared Findekáno without giving much importance.  
“I'm going to put all my effort into it being soon. Before what you imagine.”  
“Surprise me”, the youngest laughed and when his cousin stepped aside, he pressed the animal with his heels.

Almost half an hour later, Macalaurë found his older brother still at the barn door.

 

 

Even with the excellent steed - evidently one of those who Fëanáro embarked on the ships - the trip took Findekáno seven full days. When he finally faced the tents made from the skins of the beasts hunted on the ice, the feeling of returning home was as if fresh water were pouring down his throat.

Findekano passed by the sentry, waving at him. Before advancing much further, a group of infants - none beyond early childhood - ran to meet him, contesting the right to tend to the prince's horse.

“Quiet, monsters”, ordered the elf, dismounting. “Arrow will not stay with us. Feed him, comb his mane and tail and let him cool before he decides to go back home, okay?”

The children responded in an enthusiastic chorus and several hands pulled on the reins to lead the animal to the nearest trough as Findekano headed to the only tent made of white skins in the settlement. Remembering something, he turned around and yelled at the group of kindergartners:

“And do not stuff him with jams!”  
“You know they'll do exactly that, right?”

Findekano grimaced and started walking, followed by his interlocutor.

“What kind of ruler am I when neither the children respect me?”  
“The ruler who got us new lands”, said Findaráto with a charming smile. “We should be celebrating.”  
“We’ll celebrate tonight, Ingoldo. Tell me.”  
“Nothing important. Some orcs in the north -a hundred. They didn’t even cross the first line. I heard that I also have to congratulate you.”  
“Depends on how you see it: Aldawen Ardamiriel is the lucky one.”  
“Oh! Well ... that girl seems to hold you in high esteem.”  
“That girl is a bitch, Fëanáro’s pet, "growled Findekáno.

Both walked through the camp. Findekano had changed the course of his steps, making a detour to go to his tent. His gaze studied the faces of those who worked in front of his shelters and mentally took note of each new face.

“Have they come more?”  
“The survivors of an avarin clan. They were assaulted a few months ago and not many of them remained. They lost most children and young or pregnant females.”

Findekano stopped short when he heard him. Findaráto took a few more steps before imitating him and turning around.

“Women and children”, he mused. “It seems that it is a new style of operation of our enemy. Did they mention something peculiar?”  
“Peculiar?”  
“Guruthos ... shadow of death ... they seem very popular figures among our enemies. Although difficult to see and apparently, to kill.”  
“I have not heard of those ... guruthos. You?”  
“I killed one. She”, he corrected himself after a second. “She looked like an elf. With a striking mask.”

Findaráto frowned darkly, thoughtfully.

“I'll find out from the survivors of the Avarin clan. Guruthos, huh?”  
“Nuruhuini”, replied Findekano in a mockingly mysterious voice. “Your uncle translated it right away. I think he does not like Sindarin”, he mocked with a grimace.  
“Why would he like it? He is proud of his language and his precious alphabet. Irissë told me that both of you participated in that fight.”

Findekano gave a low growl.

“Irissë talks too much lately. She complains about your brother; but it's a mother hen touching my balls.”  
“Finno ...”  
“I just killed some orc assholes. And a 'nuruhuinë', ” he added in a grandiloquent tone. “I won the admiration of a beautiful sindë for that.”  
“You almost cut the girl's neck.”  
“She came from behind”, he shrugged.

Finally they had arrived at the accommodation of the High Prince and Findekáno turned in front of his cousin. Seeing his frown, he grimaced in annoyance.

“Oh come on, Ingoldo! It was not much! In case I had killed her -Fëanáro would not have done anything: he was delighted with my new talent.”  
“It's a dangerous talent, Findekano. For yourself more than for others.”  
“When did you become such a party pooper?”  
“When you became a son of a bitch. You forgot it? We were together.”  
“Whatever. You know what? Let’s celebrate tonight: wine, music, bonfires ... dance ... sex ... I have not had a good fuck for more than two months. I need to relieve. In two days, we left for our new lands. How about that?”  
“I'm going to tell Artaresto to prepare the drinks.”  
“Invite the avarin, of course.”  
"You're still sharp-eyed," said Arafinwë's eldest son, turning slightly to look around the place where several young Avarin were gathered.  
“And with exquisite taste. See you in a few hours.”  
“I will summon the others. Your sister will be happy to dance.”

Findekano raised an eyebrow, thinking if it was time to ask his cousin if he should worry. However, when Findaráto walked away with the characteristic feline gait of the Helquendi, the lord of the House of the Silver Star shook his head, shook off his worries and turned around to enter his tent.

The flap of skin fell behind him, plunging the tent into a warm gloom. Even after a dozen cycles of walking in sunlight, Findekano still resented the excess of clarity. In the gloom of the North Sea, the Noldor of the Two Houses had wandered until they lost track of time. Only when the Unbegotten remembered the past and searched in their memories what they learned in the youth of Arda, could the elves recover a semblance of control. However, the cycles of the sun and the moon were too short compared to the cycles of the Trees. Findekano detested this copy of Laurelin's light almost as much as he detested the certainty that time was shortened even for the immortals.

A laugh rose to his lips. Immortals! What immortals were they that succumbed to the fierceness of cold, sank in frozen waters, fell under the blades of monsters...? Immortals...

“I see that it is true that your trip has been fortunate, my brother.”

Findekano frowned - the laughter stopped and the sharp eyes scanning the half-darkness of the place.

Next to the cot at the back of the place, a silhouette stood up slowly, almost solemnly. The veil that covered the head was a deep black, as well as the tunic that fitted the generous bust and the rounded hips. The female raised her pale like lilies and cast the veil over her shoulders, revealing the pearly face and golden hair braided tightly.

“Elenwë”, breathed Findekáno with relief; but then he frowned again. “What are you doing here? Has something happened with Itarildë?”  
“The child is fine” replied Elenwë calmly.

Findekano was tempted to point out that his niece had ceased to be a child long ago - the moment she killed her first beast to survive.

“Then?” He sighed with evident fatigue. “To what do I owe your presence ... my sister?”

The most genuine surprise appeared in the features of the female, who surrounded the bed and approached the center of the large tent.

“Is it that I can’t be here because of the simple desire to see you? You've been away from home for more than two months.”  
“This is not our house, Elenwë”, replied Findekáno, raising his eyebrow marked. “This ...” he embraced the room with a contemptuous gesture; “is just a stop on our way.”  
“Fëanáro has given you the lands you wanted”, Elenwë realized and a flash illuminated her lavender eyes.  
“I earned them.”  
“ Then we should celebrate.”  
“We will celebrate. Tonight we will have a party to honor our dead”, said the prince, as he prepared to look for clean clothes.  
“I hope we meet in the dances.”

Findekano straightened when he was already leaning over the chest containing the underwear. Slowly, he turned to face Elenwë.

“We will not dance tonight, Elenwë.”  
“Why not?”She smiled, gently, moving forward to shorten the distance between them. “It's been a while since ...”  
“We will not dance tonight, Elenwë. Nor any other night. I hope you understand ... _sister_.”

Elenwë paled until her face resembled a marble mask. Clenching her fists on the skirt of her dress, she made a stiff bow and left the tent with the gait of a queen.

Findekano released the air he had contained without realizing it. For the first time in weeks, discouragement and despair surfaced in his features as he collapsed in the only chair in the place.

“Father, you should be here”, he mused, convinced that if Nolofinwë lived, he would not have had to negotiate with Fëanáro the price of Maitimo's life, he would not have had to become a bloodthirsty monster, he would not have fallen in the temptation of the white arms of his brother's widow.


	9. I Nuruhuini (I)

She turned her head cautiously. Near her, two females from another clan embraced each other as hard as the chains around their necks and wrists allowed. Lheineth blinked several times before turning her gaze in another direction: only females. There was not a male among the prey taken by the orcs and the young she-elf frowned when she saw that some of them were in an advanced state of gestation. One of the prisoners was holding her large belly with both hands while trying to stay on her knees with effort.

“Why are we here?”

Lheineth half turned to the speaker. The female was a little older than her; but his belly showed the last stages of gestation. Instinctively, the girl from the Clan of the Crescent Moon put a hand to her flat stomach: she had only conceived two weeks ago, during the rite of change of season.

“Because we're waiting.”

Lheineth raised her face to the new interlocutor. The red and black painted face of this elf betrayed her as a 'storyteller' and Lheineth barely contained the impulse to bring her fist to her forehead as a sign of respect.

“Waiting?” repeated the question. A sindë.

The 'storyteller' lowered her eyes to the Sindarin elf's belly and then opened her arms slightly to reveal her abdomen painted red and green, also bulky.

“All?” Lheineth inquired, bewildered.  
“The ones in this room, yes. The others were taken to the dungeons or mines. They also took the children.”  
“Are they going to kill us?” the Sindë whispered, a squeak of fear seeping into her voice.  
“No”, denied the 'storyteller' and when a sigh of relief broke from the livid lips of the subject of Greymantle, she added: “Not yet”, a smile curling her black lips.

Lheineth hid her own smile when she witnessed the astonished terror of the foreigner. The 'storyteller' crossed with her a look of understanding and the girl turned to notice where they were being led.

 

Her village had been attacked two nights ago. The orcs had killed all the males that were within their reach: many had their throats cut while being raped; others were torn to pieces still alive to serve as food. The females and the children were hunted; but except those who opposed resistance, none suffered damage. In essence.

The prisoners were led as a group tied to the skirts of the Horror Fangs. Lheineth had heard stories of the terrible fortress that the Dark God had built under the Smoky Mountains; but nothing prepared her for the dreadful magnificence of the colossal iron gates. However, the orcs did not lead them to the entrance of Angband: pulling the ropes around their necks, they were dragged to a crack in the rocky slope and forced to follow stumbling the sinuous stairs that descended to the bowels of the earth.

When she was in a room before which three corridors opened, Lheineth felt her blood go cold: in that place, a creature of nightmares waited.

All Avarin children grew up listening to the stories of the demons of fire and darkness - Lheineth would lull her children with those stories one day - but seeing one was almost a miracle, something that did not happen in the lives of the children of the One. Perhaps for that reason, Lheineth recognized the being who received them in the room.

The balrog had separated the children with the hilt of his whip, pushing them almost delicately to one of the doors. When there were no infants, the demon initiated another selection process - this time sniffing over the prisoners. When he reached Lheineth, the creature had stopped, smelling a second time before pushing her towards the rest of the pregnant females.

They had been led down the darkened corridor to the immense hall in which they were now. They were forced to kneel to the side and since then they have been waiting.

Waiting.

The response of the 'storyteller' to Sindë's question resonated in Lheineth's mind. The youth observed the prisoners again. The rumor that pregnant females from other villages were hunted had begun to spread for a few months. Of course, the Clan sages thought the worst when it came to orcs: they had probably discovered that pregnant females had a different flavor or developed a fondness for babies taken directly from the womb. She never expected to be taken to Angband when she was captured. She never expected to survive long enough to see the bowels of iron hell.  
Her silver eyes traveled to the wall in front of them and the young elf frowned, staring at the carved seat in the living stone. Huge iron horns crowned the throne and a mantle of a dark red hue covered one of the arms and the seat. On the sides of the stone throne hung black iron rings.

Every ten feet rose rock posts that held burning cauldrons. The flames illuminated the room and dyed the pavement a golden and dark tone at once.

Lheineth's gaze focused on the dark stains that spread across the floor between them and the throne, scurrying sinuously between the irregular slabs.

A discreet shriek to her left made her turn to find Doriath's girl covering her mouth while her green eyes expressed absolute terror. Lheineth frowned, contemptuous: how could that female give birth if everything frightened her? However, out of pure curiosity she followed the direction in which the Sindë looked ... and the voice stuck in her throat.

Above them, beyond where their outstretched hands could reach, a macabre spectacle completed the decoration of the room: from the thick rings embedded in the polished rock walls hung the bodies of numerous elves. Some of them kept remnants of clothes - a shred of shirt, a piece of leggings half covering the thighs, fragments of chainmail attached to the flabby skin -; but most were completely naked. All, without exception, showed the traces of torture: intricate designs made with a whip, deep cuts that exposed the entrails ... An unfortunate one had been skinned and even in the distance, Lheineth perceived the agonizing glint of his eyes like gems between the red mass of naked muscles and nerves. Alive. All were still alive and the empty spaces showed that those who died had been removed, probably to feed the beasts that served the Dark God.

Lheineth kept her eyes fixed on her hanging brothers, wondering if that would be her fate. The fate of all of them.

“The throne room.”  
Lheineth turned to the voice that whispered in her ear. The 'storyteller' smiled at her - her teeth like pearls gleaming between black painted lips.

“We will see…?”  
“Perhaps. The Dark God does not always **grace** his subjects with his presence.”

Lheineth stopped the sigh of relief. With one of the hands joined in his lap, she pointed up.

“We…?”

The 'storyteller' did not raise her eyes beyond the crescent tattooed on the forehead of the young Avarin.

“Maybe. If we are strong enough.”

The breath that passed through Lheineth's throat burned like acid. Strong. She looked up at the condemned ones again, now reverently.

There was a distant rumor, attracting the attention of the prisoners to one of the side doors. Several orcs appeared, each pulling a chain to the end of which was an elf. When one of the prisoners was delayed, their driver pulled the chain making them backtracking and fall. One - a laegel who barely entered the first adolescence - was dragged by the dirty tiles between the shrill laughter of the spectators. 

Lheineth blinked to see that hundreds of orcs had gathered in the shadows around the room. **Thousands**. Her eyes hurt when trying to count them. Above the orcs the girl perceived the presence of balrogs.

Not only did balrogs stand out for their greater stature, but they maintained a certain distance from the orcs, as if they did not wish to mix with inferior beings.

The prisoners were taken to the center of the room and forced to prostrate themselves before the throne until their foreheads touched the ground. When the laegel tried to rebel, the orc next to him stepped on the back of his neck, sticking it to the tiles until the boy struggled for lack of air: then, the orc pressed more rawhide boot and with a snap, the elf’s head twisted in an unnatural way.

“Fuck, Kashta!” exclaimed someone in the audience. “You have just run out of competitor!”  
“He moved too much the asshole”, replied the aforementioned and pulling the chain, lifted the boy like a bundle before throwing it to the mob.

Before the corpse touched the ground, several hands rose to it, trapping it in the air. A tumult was formed and the delicate youthful body was easily torn. The lucky ones who got a piece devoted themselves to devouring it with enthusiasm, repelling those who wanted to try a bite.

Lheineth watched the show with wide eyes. A short howl was heard by her side and she turned around in time to remove a leg before the vomit of Sindë made her dirty.

The entertainment had caused a small tumult among the spectators. From their positions, the balrogs observed with disdain how the orcs were still trying to get a piece of meat from those who still held a leg or an arm half gnawing the corpse.

“Enough!”

The clear voice, without emotion, resounded above the tumult. Immediately, the rioters calmed down, readjusting their positions in the circle.

Next to the stone throne was standing a being. His white clothes were out of place. A tall plume of snowy feathers crowned his white hair and in his left hand he held a black cane adorned at the top with a ruby the size of a fist. He wore an obsidian necklace.

The eyes of the being were paced by the orcs gathered before the throne and stopped on the one who murdered his prisoner.  
“Kashta”, he said calmly; “if you do not have a competitor, you must retire. Now.”  
“I can get another one”, the orc replied, crossing his sinewy arms over his chest. “One better than that puny.”  
“You know the rules, soldier”, replied the other, probably a representative of the Dark God. “Withdraw from the room or ...”  
"My Lord Langon," the orc insisted stubbornly, "any of these females will be better than the pixie boy. I'll just choose one ...”  
“The elf females are not here to fight “, one of the balrogs replied from a balcony while striking with the hilt of his whip the side of one of the prisoners hanging on the wall.  
“Only one, Captain Saew.”

Lheineth recognized the balrog who chose them. In the legends, the balrogs were demons of shadow and fire, destroying the world with their whips and devouring elves like quails. In the few hours that had elapsed since her arrival in Angband, the girl had proven that the stories were wrong. The balrogs were like elves: each different, each magnificent in its own way.

Saew was a creature of exquisite beauty, superior to any elf Lheineth had ever seen. His skin and hair were a soft shade of silver, and black horns curved around his pointy ears. A net of silver chains rested on his head, between and around the base of the horns, holding rubies that swayed on his smooth forehead. On the silvery skin, the almond-shaped black eyes - without white that adorned them - stood out like obsidians.

Saew scanned the prisoners and refocused on Kashta.

“Retreat, soldier”, he ordered with a soft voice, similar to a feather caress.  
“A whore more or less will not matter ...”  
“Prisoners are not here to fight. Not today. Retreat, Kashta.”

The orc growled, showing his fangs and turned in place; but instead of walking towards the crowd that surrounded the room, he jumped in the direction of the prisoners.

Lheineth raised her chained hands in front of her face instinctively. She heard the sindë's scream of horror at her side and the hot viscous liquid soaked her forearms and chest. Lheineth lowered her arms, listening to the outraged howls of the audience: within three feet of her, Kashta crawled, spitting greenish blood. Lheineth leaned forward slightly to check that the lower half of the orc's body was left behind when he helped himself with the claws to propel forward. Kashta stretched out an arm and stood motionless.

“Does anyone else want to disobey my brother?” asked a mocking voice.

Lheineth raised her eyes: next to Saew was another balrog. Its curved shapes suggested that it was a female; but unlike her brother, her appearance was of an awesome ugliness. She wore braided black hair and skin painted red in geometric patterns. As a dress, she wore a cross band over her breasts and some straps hanging from the crimson belt.

When the silence answered the balrog’s question, Langon waved a hand, regaining the attention of those present and remembered the rules of the strange competition that was coming. At a signal from him, the orcs still holding their respective prisoners opened in a circle. The chains were tied to fixed rings on the ground, so that the elves could move within a radius of ten feet; but without reaching the center of the room or approaching the spectators.

Lheineth watched with interest the preparations. She hoped that the prisoners would be forced to fight each other; but at the distance that they were from each other, such a thing did not seem likely ... until different weapons were placed at their feet. The young Avarin blinked as she identified knives, stones and pieces of swords; but no really important weapon.

“Let the game begin” announced the herald and for the first time, a slight smile curved the snowy lips.

Lheineth frowned: none of the 'competitors' took a weapon, waiting for someone else to take the initiative.

“Oh, come on!” grumbled the balrog from before and grabbing an ax from the balustrade below her, threw it spinning in the air: one of the elves fell with his head shattered. “One less” laughed the creature, amused. “Who will be the next lucky one?”

Immediately, the prisoners crouched and took up arms. One went directly for a knife to cut his throat; however, a stone from his nearest neighbor made him lose his weapon.

Lheineth watched in amazement as the 'competitors' tried to commit suicide while preventing their partners from succeeding. What kind of combat was that?

Between the hoarse howls of the orcs, the laughter of the balrogs and the obscene shouts of enthusiasm, the pregnant females witnessed the insane competition until a scream of fright betrayed that there was only one living elf in the center of the room.

“We have a winner!” Langon announced almost solemnly. “Congratulations ... uh ...” He gestured in the direction of the orc of thin white hair that held the chain of the surviving elf “ ... you, slave. Your elf will decorate our rooms tonight. Do a good job with it.”

The comprehension clogged the breath in Lheineth's throat. She forced herself not to look up at the room’s macabre ornaments.

“We could have another more striking adornment”, proposed a voice, attracting everyone's attention.

The male descended the stairs from where the balrogs were gathered to the foot of the throne, on the other side where Langon was.

“Lungothrin”, the herald greeted him coldly.

The white balrog – the only one of its kind, the only demon who instead of fire dominated the ice among the servants of the Dark Enemy – gave a smile that undressed the pronounced fangs adorned with gold rings.

“The winner will have one more month of life if ... he gives us a decoration to replace him.”

There was a long silence. Lungothrin gestured and the balrog next to Saew jumped over the balustrade, landing softly in front of the orc and his winning piece. Without wasting a glance at the terrified elf, the balrog approached the kneeling females and studied them for a few seconds.

Lheineth held her breath as the female stopped before her, studying the prisoners. Beside her, a metallic sound betrayed that someone was trembling desperately.

“Quiet”, heard the hoarse whisper of the 'storyteller', but it was too late.  
“This one!” announced the balrog and with one hand raised the sindë by the hair.  
“No no no!” screamed the girl, kicking desperately.  
“Good choice, Naeg”, nodded Lungothrin. “It will make a beautiful decoration with an open belly. Give him a knife”, he ordered the orc who still held the winning elf.

The elf received the piece of steel with trembling hands. His brown eyes fixed desperately on the female who sobbed and howled, struggling in Naeg's grip.

"Powerful Banoth," Lheineth mused, holding her breath.

Naeg lowered the Sindarin girl and held her against the floor while tearing at her clothes, exposing the tight, bulging abdomen. Judging by the size, it must have been a little over a month before the birth and Lheineth pressed her lips in rage. They were going to kill both: the mother and the baby. Only for…

The elf squeezed the blade until the blood ran down his forearm as he leaned over the desperate mother.

“Please, please, please ...” pleaded the girl, raising her head to see the sheet approaching the skin tense. “My son -have compassion for my son ...”

The man breathed hard ... and with one leap, he plunged the knife into the female's chest, which arched back before she remained motionless.

“Damn you asshole!” roared Naeg. “You killed her!”

From a slap, she threw him several meters away. The elf fell with his head bent and his eyes open.

“Get the baby out”, Saew ordered from the balcony. “There are a few minutes before it dies.”

Lheineth opened her eyes, bewildered, watching as two creatures emerged from the walls to quickly approach the dead female.

"We've lost our ornaments, Lungothrin," Langon commented calmly, ignoring how the two Maiar cut the elf's belly and extracted the baby, quickly stripping it of the placenta and the remnants before giving it a shock of energy that made him cry his lungs out.

“Well, we can see if we finally get to decorate the throne of the Master with the skin of the 'white ghost' “ the balrog proposed, shrugging his shoulders.  
“The Master ordered for the prisoner being kept in isolation until his return.”  
“Mairon is your master, Langon?” Lungothrin scoffed.

Langon made a face of displeasure and raising a hand, ordered:

“Bring the prisoner.”

Lheineth looked away as the shattered body of the sindë was thrown to the orcs. Also the rest of the dead followed the same fate, quickly becoming pieces of meat that the horrible beings snatched from each other.

“That will be our destiny?” Lheineth muttered, disgusted.  
“ Not as long as we carry our children in the womb” replied the 'storyteller'. “Tonight is not over yet.”

Later, Lheineth would remember with fascination the moment when the two orcs dragged the prisoner to the center of the room.

Naked - using only a piece of leather covering his genitals - the male had his head completely shaved and the whip marks ran down his broad, muscular back. A gold chain was pressed around his throat and anklets of the same metal were wrapped around his wrists and ankles.

At a signal from Lungothrin, a dozen Orcs came forward, wielding their weapons. The prisoner turned slowly on his heels, scanning his adversaries and a smile curved his lips, showing perfect white teeth.

When the blood spattered Lheineth's face, the girl jumped, expecting to see the prisoner's head roll at her feet. An unhealthy euphoria flared in her belly, rising to cloud her mind: within three feet of her, an orc was writhing in its own intestines.

The prisoner seized the fallen man's weapon and rolling over on his own he stood up to decapitate another enemy.

Lheineth felt the agitated breathing of the 'storyteller' beside her. Excitement made the blood flow in the female's veins and warmth spilled between her clenched thighs. It was delicious and terrible to witness the deadly dance of the prisoner: what the blade did not reach, his free hand looked for it. His whole body was like a perfect instrument, designed to kill.

Lheineth had witnessed the ancient dances of her people. She herself had danced between the obsidian blades and the black feathered arrows. But she had never seen a show that ignited her body and soul to such an extent.

_, “Lachend”_ , the 'storyteller' mused, fascinated in equal measure.

The prisoner held the last opponent, pressing it by the head to force it to kneel and with deliberate slowness, cut its throat.

Silence followed his victory. Lheineth clenched her hands over her breasts so as not to shout with enthusiasm.

Slow palms broke the tense stillness.

“Gothmog”, said Lungothrin, finding the newcomer over the heads of the rest.

The leader of the balrogs advanced to stop next to the fighter.

“Our precious child deserves a prize, don’t you think, brother?” Gothmog declared, his red hair gathered in a tall ponytail.  
“The idea was to cover the throne with his skin.”  
“Ah”, understood the fire balrog. “An interesting idea.” He slid a black nail across the back of the prisoner, who showed his teeth in a silent growl. “Too bad the Master prefers this skin attached to his bones.”

A laugh greeted the comment.

“But our charming winner can give us another show today”, continued Gothmog and turning around, grabbed the elf to drag him along with the group of females. Throwing him to his knees, he leaned close to him and grabbed him by the nape of the neck, forcing him to contemplate the women. “When was the last time you were the one who put it? When was the last time you put your cock in a pussy instead of having a cock in your ass? Choose one. I want to see if you still know how to fuck.”

Lheineth held her breath. Both males were so close that she was sure they could smell her excitement. She had the idea that she would not mind being chosen - even if it meant being fucked in front of all those beasts, on top of the blood-covered slabs.

As if he could feel her thoughts, the elf fixed his gaze on her and the girl swallowed. Lheineth had never seen such eyes, flooded with the blue of the gems and the silver of the stars. They were the eyes that the wise assigned to the first Clan; but in Endor there were no eyes like that. Those who were born with blue eyes, only possessed a pale tone, of washed out water; never like these. Lheineth was lost in the depths of blue silver, following the soft lilac flashes.

“This one?” Gothmog laughed and extending the other hand, grabbed Lheineth by the nape. “Do you want this one? You have a terrible taste. She has narrow hips and a skinny ass. She's going to scream like a bitch when you fuck her. And she's going to scream more when I fuck her.”

The elf narrowed his eyes, sensing the shudder that ran through the girl.

“What?” pretended to be surprised the balrog. “Did you think you were going to enjoy alone? I'm going to fuck you while you're inside her and then, I'm going to give her to all my brothers. If she survives, I may also pass her on to the orcs. What do you think? Will she hold? Will she resist the first...?”

A roar interrupted his words. Lheineth fell back, staring in shock at the rage with which the elf struck the balrog.

Surprised, Gothmog backed away, remaining seated while the prisoner jumped on him and dug his thumbs in the eyes. There was a wet click and Gothmog's claws sank into the elf's hips, piercing the flesh. The prisoner did not react to the pain, clenching his teeth in a savage grimace as he lowered a hand down the torso of the balrog to look for a weapon among the leather clothes.

The whip burst cut the air. Lheineth screamed as the elf arched backward: the leather braid encircling his throat and pulling him away from Gothmog's body.

The leader of the balrogs stood with agility, wiping his face with the back of his hand: instead of the left eye, now only a bloody hole remained.

"Grab him," Gothmog ordered Naeg, who was still holding the whip with which she held the elf. “It seems he already misses my cock inside him.”

The elf struggled like a wild animal when the she-balrog shortened the whip to tie his hands in front of him. Before he even managed to kick the female, another balrog jumped from the balustrade and grabbed his legs, opening them obscenely. A third ripped off the leather garment that covered his pelvis.

A chorus of savage howls rose among the spectators as Gothmog untied the loops of his leather breeches, uncovering the swollen shaft.

Lheineth looked away, holding back a helpless sob and raised her eyes to the balcony where only Saew stayed away from the amusements of his brothers. The female looked at the balrog's undaunted face, whose black eyes remained fixed on the spectacle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Laegel: green elf (S)  
> * Lheineth: freedom with female termination (S)  
> * Saew: poison (S)  
> * Naeg: pain (S)  
> * Lachend: sindarin name for Noldor. Flame-eyes. Pl. lechind.


	10. I Nuruhuini (II)

_Nimrog._

_The 'white demon'._

The first time that Lheineth heard the name was several days after her arrival in Angband. Uialil - the ‘storyteller’ - had begun to compile the stories that in the hours of rest she whispered to her unborn child and among the prisoners the figure of the 'white demon' was as much a motive of admiration as of fear. Others more powerful than he had succumbed. Others had surrendered before. What kind of power contained the soul of the _Nimrog_ that even the sacred stones of the Dark Master did not break it?

Lheineth listened in silence, evoking the eyes of blue fire in her mind.

“ It's one of those who came from the west”, one of the other females reported while they were carving the bone masks, sitting in a circle. “The Fox Prince was also here, the son of the king of the Nauredhil.”  
"The Dark Lord killed Fox Prince," replied an Avar with braided hair with crow feathers, smiling sideways.  
“No. Other prisoners say he kept him alive for years before hanging him in one of the Fangs. Then, someone came ... one of those who crossed the North Sea surely, and took him. The Dark Master was furious.” She lowered his voice to murmur. “They say he hit the Necromancer in front of everyone.”

A mocking smile curved the mouths of the females; but it quickly disappeared when a cane hit the floor and someone leaned over them.

“ Interesting talk?” Asked a metallic voice.

The elves did not raise their heads, knowing full well that the questioner was Tar-Mairon's favorite maia. None of the prisoners found it pleasant to face her face, whose lower jaw was composed of a piece of metal from which protruded sharp teeth in inhuman numbers.

“Are you going to keep telling, slave?” inquired the maia. “Or do I finish the story? Should I tell you how the Master of the World destroyed with a gesture a thousand useless creatures like you? Should I tell you how Captain Lungothrin cut the throat of the white demon and only because the Master wanted it, was he kept alive? Our Master healed him and gave him that precious gold chain. As a reminder that he will never speak again in his disgusting language. Do you want to hear how the 'white demon' is open and arranged as a banquet for the World Master in the same throne room? How now his mouth only serves to be fucked by all who want it?”  
“Undumeliantë, sister.”

The maia straightened up, turning to the soft voice that called to her. Through the iron door appeared a feminine silhouette - her slender body hidden by a loose ghostly tunic and instead of hair, she wore a pearl headdress the same shade as her cloudy eyes.

“Fairitanë”, the other snorted, leaning on his metal cane.  
“You should not exalt the test subjects. The tranquility is essential for the pregnancy to come to fruition.”  
“Half of them will not survive the birth”, Undumeliantë shrugged. “And the other half we will get the babies out before the time comes. What difference does it make to be exalted? They are just pieces of meat that will end up devoured in a smelly cell.”

Upon hearing it, one of the prisoners let out a scream and another vomited on her own feet.

Fairitanë turned her colorless eyes towards them and shook her head.

“That's what I mean, sister. Already the success rate is quite low. We do not need to attract greater difficulties.”  
“There's more where they came from. And there are kids everywhere to harvest them.”  
“ Infants do not meet the expectations of the Master. Their souls become distorted too soon and fall into corruption.”  
“There were some guys who got it?”  
“Dead. The test subject one hundred and two was the last to die. We need one strong enough to guide them and bind their souls to that leader's.”

Lheineth listened to them in silence, continuing to carve the mask in the form of a crow. Fairitanë spoke in a monotonous tone, as one farmer would speak of his fields and the other did not show much interest in the subject either.

“Undumeliantë”, called a male voice, “the Master wishes to see you in his rooms. Fairitanë, one of the females of the other cell is giving birth.”  
“Oh! I hope it's female, " Fairitanë pointed out and a smile half-opened her red-tinged lips. “There are not many females among the test subjects.”  
“They know the sex of their offspring before they are born”, the man shrugged.  
“But they do not want to say it. They are so stubborn! As if that could protected their children”, sighed the maia before crossing the rock wall.

The male turned to the prisoners and watched them work. Squatting beside the Avarin with raven feathers, he ran a finger along the outline of the ram-head mask.

“Do you know what are the masks that you carve with so much effort for?” He inquired next to the ear of the girl, who had remained motionless. “To hide the faces of your children. Those children who carry in your bellies will become warriors of the World Master; but not any warrior, no! They will be 'shadows of death', capable of mingling with the enemy to cut their throats while they sleep. Elvish face”, he continued stroking the elf's chin with a fingernail; “elvish smell”, he put his nose to the female neck; “elvish soul”, he put a hand on the girl's chest; “and orkish instinct.”

The Avar let out a low gasp and collapsed with a hole in her chest. In the hand of the maia with blue hair the girl’s heart beat for a few seconds before stopping.  
The maia cast his golden gaze over the rest of the prisoners, who watched in shock.

“I will not tolerate weak creatures in the service of the Master. Those who do not deserve it, will be food for orcs. Only the strong ones will serve the Master.”  
“What's wrong, Nuruher?” asked a maia coming from the corridor.  
“This female had stopped feeding. Her young was malnourished and useless. Throw the body to the lower levels. And stay watching them, Moralassë: we do not want any more disobedience.”

Lheineth tilted her head, concentrating again on the mask in her hands.

 

 

 

“Do you think it's true?”

Uialil turned to face her companion.

Lying on the cold ground, the prisoners huddled as close as they could to keep warm. The 'storyteller', on the other hand, kept away from the rest. Lheineth had crawled to her to consult the subject that had been circling in her head since the conversation between the Maiar.

“What? Turn our children into monsters? I never doubted it.”  
“That a leader is needed to guide them.”

Uialil did not move.

“It's possible. Maybe they hope that one of the unborn is capable of ...”  
“Your son will be born in five months, mine in eight -By the time one of our children has reached that level of power, the others will have become orcs and won’t have salvation.  
“The children who had been capture aren’t doing it better”, sighed the 'storyteller'.  
“Because there is no such leader that binds them to their elven essence. It’s evident that the demons and the servants of the Necromancer don’t possess that power either.”

They kept silent. The dark eyes of the 'storyteller' ran across the thin face of the youngest.

“But Nimrog does.”

Lheineth bit her lower lip and Uialil smiled, amused. Extending a hand, she caressed her cheek almost tenderly.

“Sister, you are transparent as moon crystal”, she declared. “The 'white demon' has not abandoned your thought since that day. I haven’t stopped thinking about him either. But Nimrog is a prisoner like us, like our children. He hasn’t been able to rescue himself: how could he ...?”  
“I don’t wanna be saved. I want my daughter to have an opportunity. I want her to be able to remember who her mother was, what her people are -I don’t want her turned into a beast that enjoys devouring her brothers.”  
“Maybe that would be for the best, Lheineth. Do you want your daughter to know that those she kills are her race brothers? Do you want her to rebel and follow the fate of the weak ones?”  
“I want her to be strong; but not enough to decorate the throne room. I want one day she can walk under the stars and know _that_ is her place.”

Uialil sat down to look her in the eye.

“Nimrog has not given way until now”, she reminded her. “Do you think he’ll accept to bow down just out of compassion for our children? Because of the possibility of leading an army?”  
“I think for the army he would. I think we should try.”  
“They say they keep him isolated.”  
“You can find out where his cell is. The others talk to you.”  
“How would you get to him? Your absence will not go unnoticed.”  
“During the hours of rest nobody watches us and in my village I used to be an explorer. I know how to move in the shadows and sing the songs in silence.”  
“You know the fog language”, half-smiled the 'storyteller'.

Lheineth nodded and, raising her hands, began to draw signs in the air with her fingers. Uialil spread her hands and covered the young woman’s firmly.

“If you convince Nimrog”, she declared with certainty, “my son will be a 'shadow of death' and will walk with your daughter under the stars.”

 

 

Saying it was easier than doing it. The entrails of Angband were made up of miles and miles of tunnels that twisted themselves into lazy serpents, or scaled the walls like hungry worms. In the lower levels swarmed the horrors of elven nightmares: those who did not complete the transit to orcs (elven consciences trapped in deformed bodies and perpetual hunger); others that went further in the transformation (irrational beasts that ended up devouring themselves); animals corrupted by the power of Morgoth; failed experiments of the Necromancer and his servants ...

During the short moments of rest that followed her explorations, Lheineth told her friend what she saw, using sign language to avoid alerting the other prisoners.

_"You shouldn’t go back there_ ," Uialil once said, wagging her fingers reluctantly. _"It's dangerous and probably doesn’t help."_  
 _"Older prisoners claim that when he is free, Nimrog wanders through the lower levels. Yesterday I saw one of those things dead. For him. He can’t be very far. I'll find him tonight. "_  
 _"How do you know he killed it?"_  
 _"I already know his style. He use two blades to kill and always cut the throat or behead his victim. In addition, the beasts don’t devour those he kills: they fear him so much that they don’t dare,_ "smiled the young woman, caressing her belly unconsciously.

Uialil followed the movement of her hand and let out a low sigh.

_"She will arrive earlier."_ To Lheineth's surprise, she traced more symbols in the air. _"Your daughter. She will arrive earlier. I have seen it."_

“Then I must hurry”, said the girl in a firm whisper.

 

 

It seems that the ancestors wished to protect her daughter, Lheineth thought as she listened to the Maiar's conversation. As usual, the 'white demon' had been taken to the throne room to serve the Dark Lord and despite not being able to speak and be tied, the prisoner had managed to end up being punished. After being whipped and raped by Gothmog and several of his subordinates, Nimrog had been taken to his cell, where he would remain locked until the Master decided to have compassion.

As soon as the resting hours arrived and the maid in charge of watching the prisoners withdrew, Lheineth got up on her hands and knees and crawled silently towards the hole that connected with the sewers.

“What are you doing?”

Lheineth turned to discover the frightened face of a Sindarin girl. She put a finger to her lips, asking for silence.

“No!” exclaimed the other. “If you escape, they will blame us. They will punish us and kill us. I will not let you…”  
“Escape?” Uialil mocked, approaching. “Don’t be stupid, child: nobody escapes from Angband.”  
“But…!”  
“Silence. Or I'll cut your neck, idiot. Lheineth will be back before the Necromancer's servant returns.”

Without waiting for another word from the terrified sindë, Uialil nodded to her friend. The last thing Lheineth saw was the hand of the 'storyteller' covering the mouth of the other female.

 

 

The girl already knew the location of the Lachend’s cell. She had visited the place several times, hoping to find him; but as it seemed, Nimrog only used the place when he was cut off. The rest of the time, the prisoner moved like a ghost between the lower levels and the barracks of the slaves. While he was loose, it was usual seeing orcs beheaded in the corridors in semidarkness. Although the Dark Lord knew who was responsible, a few dead beasts were not enough to decimate his army, much less make him get rid of his favorite toy.

Lheineth climbed the ventilation duct to emerge in one of the corridors on the upper levels. Nimrog's cell was located only two floors below the throne room and the rooms of the Master of the World: a privilege.

Cautiously, the girl came out of the hole and crawled to the wall. Huddled in the shadows, she raised her hands in front of her chest and began to draw the words of a power song, invoking the shadows so that they clung to her body, muffling the sound of her breathing and her bare steps. Only when she experienced the cold of the gloom in each stretch of skin did she move again, leaving her refuge to ascend the wall using the ledges.

Fortunately, Morgoth had created his dwelling-fortress without paying much attention to the elegant details. Although the level corresponding to his rooms was of an impressive majesty and luxury - as well as the wing of the Necromancer -, the rest of Angband had only been excavated without anyone bothering to polish the walls and eliminate the appearance of natural tunnels. Lheineth, accustomed from early childhood to move in nature as part of it, climbed the wall like a cat, stopping only when she reached the vent that crawled between the two levels and slipped inside.

Her belly was beginning to stand out; but as it seemed, her daughter would be small and thin, like any Avar who prided themself on their agility and ability to go unnoticed. Still her pregnancy was not an impediment to her excursions. After crawling a few meters over unimportant cells - ignoring the moans, the rattles that announced agony, the wet blows, the muffled cries - the girl finally reached her destination.

Hoarse gasps greeted her and the smell of sex drove her back. A thick voice was panting in a language unknown to her. Lheineth stood motionless, leaning against the cold wall, listening with all her soul. Had she made to a wrong cell? Would they have taken Nimrog to another place this time? Uialil had told her that, according to some rumors, the Dark Lord used to tie the prisoner to his throne like a pet and that sometimes he had kept him in his own quarters until the forces abandoned him and it was no longer fun.

With an effort, the girl crawled until she could look out of the hole and ran through the cell with her eyes. She bit her lip, stifling the exclamation that came to them.

The cell was not very wide, so Lheineth was barely two feet above what was happening and from her position, she could sense the smell of mixed sweat and blood.

Nimrog was chained to the wall, his hands over his head, the chain passing through the gold anklets. Sweat dampened his naked body and deep, still bloody furrows appeared on his sides. A chain hung from one of his ankles, echoing obscenely the rhythmic clash of flesh against flesh. Between the thighs of the elf, holding him by the back with the broad claws, was Lungothrin.

Lheineth recognized the white skin and horns of the balrog closest to Morgoth. Always next to the throne and never participating in the hunts and battles on the surface, Lungothrin was considered the most trusted servant of the Dark Master, next to the Necromancer. He had never participated in public amusements, keeping an icy expression while Gothmog and his subordinates were not limited to raping and torturing the prisoners in the throne room. Some Maiar did not seem interested in those pleasures and Lheineth had assumed ...

A hoarse moan distracted the young woman from her thoughts. The thrusts had increased in speed and the prisoner clung to the chains on his wrists in an attempt to prevent the balrog's strength from breaking a bone. Suddenly, Lungothrin released him, dropping him to the ground and taking his erection in one hand, stroked roughly once, twice ... and the semen hit the elf's face and chest, which only tilted his head slightly.

Lungothrin leaned against the wall with his clean hand as he breathed hard. After a few seconds, he straightened up and looked at the other. His eyes descended to the prisoner's soft sex and he raised a mocking eyebrow.

“Melkor is right”, he said. “You're a frigid bitch like that bitch of Manwë. That's why we do not kill you yet.”

Laughing silently, he turned and left the cell.

Lheineth waited motionless for long moments. In all that time, the elven male did not move either, letting the blood on the inside of his thighs and the sperm on his torso dry.

Finally, the female slipped out of hiding, letting herself fall down the rough wall. When she turned around, she faced the sparkling gaze of the prisoner, who kept his pose careless; nevertheless, Lheineth noticed the slight tension in the muscles of the arms and the imperceptible movement with which he flexed one of the legs.

“Easy”, she hastened to say, dropping to her knees with open hands outstretched in front of her body. “I didn’t come to hurt you ... " She broke off when she noticed the male's raised eyebrow. “I'm a good hunter, you know? In addition, you are chained.”

The prisoner stood up, arranging for his arms not to twist, and looked at the girl from his tall stature.

Lheineth watched him fascinated, experiencing the certainty that she would not have a chance against him, even in the current situation. Her gaze scanned the wounds and traces of offensive fluid.

“You want…?” She hesitated, indecisive. “I can clean you up if you want. And meanwhile I tell you why I'm here.”

Nimrog narrowed his eyes and after a moment, nodded.

Lheineth looked in the cell for the vessel of water that all the prisoners received and, tearing off a piece of her tunic, she wet it before running next to him.

“Will they take long to come back?” She interrogated while she began cleaning the elf's face. He shrugged. “I can teach you a way to talk to others: we call it ‘the fog language’ among my people. Because it's silent, like fog”, she smiled, proud as a kid. “It's by signs. It will be easier for you to communicate. Besides, it’s very useful when you need stealth. Do you want to try?” The male just frowned. “We'll talk again later. Is it okay if I call you Nimrog? It's like everyone calls you. For how you fight and -You come from the West, right? You are stronger than the rest of us. None of us would last a year in your conditions.”

Under her hands, the man's abdomen contracted and Lheineth stopped her movements. Slowly, she went over three long scratches that ran from the left nipple to the navel.

“I'm not prompting you to lead a rebellion”, the girl mused. “I’m not stupid enough to believe that a few slaves will get away from Angband, defeating the demons and the thousands of orcs that live here. Much less would it occur to me to face the power of the Necromancer.” She looked up and met Nimrog's frown. “In a few months my daughter will be born. You saw that we are many pregnant females. We were captured for that reason. They're going to create an army – a different army. The 'death shadows'. But until now they have not managed to work. They need – the Maia said they need a ... leader to bind the souls of the warriors to their will.” She felt the weight of the elf's gaze and looked up once more from the pale skin she was cleaning. “Our children, Nimrog. Those soldiers will be our children. You can…”

She broke off with a scream when one of the prisoner's legs flexed and hit her, pushing her away. Instinctively, she put a hand to her belly and breathed several times to calm herself.

“Don’t be stubborn!” she scolded, still panting. “You will never defeat Morgoth. He’s a god and the Necromancer is almost as powerful as him. Have you seen how many balrogs serve him? You can’t go against all of them. What do you want? Die?” She looked at him and her mood dropped to meet the carefree smile of the West Elf. “You can’t. Don’t you understand? They are going to continue hunting us. To pregnant women and children. They’ll continue to hunt us until they reach their goal or there are no more of us. Do you think yours are safe? Your prince was imprisoned right here. Yes, I know they rescued him; but, do you think he will be the same again? Do you think he will sit idly by while the females and the infants are hunted? The hunt must stop and it will only happen if they succeed. You have to become the leader of that army. For our children.”

Nimrog watched her for a few minutes, expressionless. With his head thrown back, he opened his mouth and uttered a silent scream. Lheineth held her breath, knowing she had won.

After a few minutes, the girl sat up and retrieved the piece of cloth to wet it again. She concentrated on cleaning the blood between the elf's thighs.

“ I will teach you the fog language”, she declared in a low voice. “I’ll heal your wounds when you need it. I can move quite easily between the tunnels and until now they haven’t discovered me. Nor do I think they care much: there is more where I come from. They probably won’t keep me after the delivery. I'll be sent to the mines or killed if something gets complicated. My daughter will become your servant. You will teach her that there is a world out there, a world to which she belongs, that belongs to her. Thus, the 'shadows of death' will never completely belong to Morgoth.”

She threw back her head and looked for the silver blue eyes of the male. She dropped the damp cloth and moved her bare hands over the firm thighs, stroking warily. The 'white demon' was the most beautiful male she saw in her short life. His eyes had a light that Angband had not been able to extinguish, that a thousand years of captivity would not dim and Lheineth knew she was trapped in that light.

Slowly, the young female leaned closer and pressed her lips to the right hip of the male, where Lungothrin's claws sank a while before. She licked the wounds, getting a brief tremor that ignited a bonfire in her lower belly. She did not stop: carefully, she devoured the still soft sex and pressed with her tongue until she felt the flesh harden and grow inside her mouth. It did not take long for the male body to arch, advancing the hips and the thick warm liquid down her throat.

Lheineth pulled away, licking her lips. Between her thighs, the wetness was almost intolerable, accompanied by pangs of desire that crossed her most sensitive point. He noticed that in front of her face the male's sex remained rigid, shuddering slightly when the female breath touched the skin nearby.

The young woman got to her feet - running her open palms over the muscles of his torso, tracing the new and old wounds with her fingertips, stopping at the nipples - and pressed the half-open mouth to the curve of Nimrog’s jaw. She wanted to enjoy him, taste him slowly, devour his smell and taste, treasure every second against his body.

Nimrog turned his face and captured the female's lips in a hard, voracious kiss. Lheineth was lost in the fire that assaulted her senses. She obeyed by pure instinct when the man's legs pressed against hers, forcing her to change position to be her back on the cold wall. With the agility of a cat, the girl climbed to the male hips, wrapping her arms around his neck, hugging his waist with her legs. She moved against him until she got the hot tip of the erection to press her entrance. Nimrog pushed inside, filling her with one blow.

Lheineth gasped in the male's mouth. Even with the uncomfortable position, the hard shaft stretched her walls and filled a space that she didn’t know existed. She rocked in the possession, finding the violent thrusts that threatened to split her in two. A part of her reminded her to be careful, not to let them hear; but the other part wanted to howl with pleasure and pain, to let the whole damned hell know that it was inside her that the 'white demon' would come.

The rhythm of the copulation was wild, a primitive dance that burned the inside of the female again and again. She lost count of the times she crossed the edge, to the point that her limbs had begun to become limp when the warm spring poured into her insides.

Lheineth let her legs slip to the floor and leaned back against the wall, still holding the prisoner's neck. After a moment, she looked up and saw herself reflected in the blue eyes.

“I will return”, she assured with a mischievous and satisfied half-smile.

He just nodded.

 

 

Lheineth dropped gently to the floor and ran to the hole in a corner to return to the ventilation ducts. She had lost track of time and feared what she would find when she returned. She was sure that if they were interrogated, the sindë who discovered her would not hesitate to give her away. And Uialil with her.

“Lost, little butterflie?”

Lheineth froze in place. Breath trapped between her chest and throat, she turned on her heels to find herself facing Saew.

The balrog watched her with his almond eyes fixed. He approached her without his black suede boots making noise against the flagstones and stopped a few steps away. A glint passed through his gaze before he leaned over to sniff the air around her. Standing up, he grabbed her by a forearm and dragged her behind him down the long corridors.

Lheineth gasped, horrified, as she tried to keep pace. What? Having sex with Nimrog had affected her baby? Impulsively, she sought the link with her daughter: everything was fine. The presence of the girl was still there, warm and firm, clinging to her body with the tenacity of a rock. Was he going to punish her for being out of the cells of the prisoners?

Saew stopped at an iron door and pushed open, pulling the girl inside. Lheineth moved and managed to stabilize.

The room was luxuriously decorated. A black and silver carpet covered the floor and curtains of heavy velvet hid the walls. There was even a huge bed and a stone table covered with parchments and containers.

Lheineth turned to discover the balrog pacing from side to side, as if he were thinking.

“My-my ...lord ...” she stammered, scared. “I swear not -I didn’t plan to escape. I just wanted -I wanted to explore ...”  
 _“You smell like him”_ , he interrupted. “You have his smell everywhere. It -He accepted?” he asked suddenly, approaching her.

Lheineth stepped back until her back hit the table.

“What?” she whispered, bewildered.  
“Him! Did he accept to become one of us? Did you convince him to bend to the end?”  
“N-not bend. Nimrog ...”  
“Nimrog?” Saew repeated, lifting his silver eyebrows. Understanding made him give a rough laugh. “Is that what you call him? Nimrog. White Demon. But tell me: what did he agree to do?”  
“The ... death shadows. He agreed to be ...”  
“ So that's it.” He looked at her with scientific interest. “For you? In exchange for you giving him pleasure from time to time?”

The girl shook her head.

“Because ... the children. For our children.”

Saew watched her with a dazed expression.

“Only that was needed?” he murmured as if to himself. “I cannot understand that attachment that inferior beings have for their offspring: they can do more! We offered him power, riches ... pleasures he could not imagine -and you only needed to use the puppies.” He returned his attention to the female, as if he were to see her again after a few seconds. “But you also offered yourelf like the bitch in heat you are.”  
“I…”  
"Females are disgusting," the Balrog hissed, gripping her chin so hard that the silver nails sank into flesh. “Even with a full belly they are still looking for someone to fuck them. You like it? Of course you liked it!” He laughed and released her, slapped her almost playfully. “You're a lucky bitch. He fucked you so hard that you're still open and wet.”

Lheineth shuddered as the long fingers slid between her thighs and the nails brushed her sensitive sex. She gasped as she felt the balrog's index enter her, exploring. Immediately, Saew withdrew his hand and brought it to his face, sniffing the fluids before putting his black tongue out and licking slowly.

“You tastes like him”, he half-smiled.

The girl let out a scream the moment the demon fell to her knees in front of her and grabbed her by the thighs, forced her to sit on the edge of the table and spread her legs. Another groan escaped her when his tongue, cold and too long, explored her vulva’s lips. Lheineth shuddered with disgust and fear as she felt the appendage slip inside, searching every trace of the other male's essence.

Lheineth felt nauseous as the black tongue moved inside her like a hungry snake. She clung to the edge of the table, biting her lip so as not to scream helplessly at the way Saew stripped her of something that belonged to her: it was she who had awakened Nimrog's desire!

When her body twisted uncomfortably, the balrog stood up and assaulted her mouth with the same impetus. He moved away licking his lips and pulling the female, he turned her over the table, laying her face down while opening her legs wider.

Lheineth stifled the scream that exploded in her throat as he penetrated her with an onslaught. Saew moved inside her, forcing his way more and more. He leaned over the girl, grabbing her by the hair to speak next to her ear, his voice hoarse.

“What makes you believe he's yours?” he scoffed while continuing to thrust in her from behind. “You are nothing. You have no right to have his smell on you. You have no right to preserve his flavor. I could kill you just for touching him. I could tear out your skin and decorate the floor with it. You are going to return with me. Every time he possesses you, every time he comes inside you -you will come with me and give me everything -everything he left in you : his smell, his flavor, his seed ...” A long moan interrupted his speech. “Why could you touch him, bitch? You're just a wild whore and he ... " Another groan betrayed the closeness of the climax and resting his forehead on the female back, he gasped loudly: "My prince!”

Lheineth did not move during the long moments when the semen filled her belly, nor in the following ones when the balrog only stayed inside her, panting raggedly until he recovered his calm. At last, Saew pulled away, straightening his clothes and Lheineth dropped to the floor, unable to hold on to her legs.

“Go back to your cell. I will inform Nuruher that you have my permission to wander as much as you want as long as you return to the laboratory before the workday.” She nodded and shivered as the balrog leaned toward her and grabbed her chin. “Feel lucky, bitch: I'm not just letting you fuck with ... Nimrog; but you will have the privilege that I will take you later. By the way, next time, ask him to cum in your ass.”

 

 

 

Mairon did not move when the balrog slipped into his bedroom.

“Master, I bring sweet news.”  
“Sweet ... as your tongue, Saew?” Mairon scoffed.  
“I hope so, my lord”, the other smiled.

Morgoth's lieutenant looked up from the scattered glass on the table and turned to look at the demon. Seeing Saew's soft smile, he smiled too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Nimrog : white demon. (S)  
> * Uialil: twiligth (S)  
> * Undumeliantë: weaver of the abyss (Q)  
> * Fairitanë: female artisan of spirits (Q)  
> * Nuruher: lord of death (Q)  
> * Moralassë: dark joy (Q)
> 
> *** About Lungothrin: In one of the early writings of Middle-earth, Ballads of the sons of Húrin, "Lungothrin, Lord of the Balrogs" is mentioned. 
> 
> **** About Langon: Langon was the name of the servant of Melko in the Elder Days. He was sent by Melko to negotiate with the rest of the Valar when they besieged Utumna. (The Book of Lost Tales Part One, "The Chaining of Melko")

**Author's Note:**

> Well, as promised, this is the remake of 'I Helquendi'. Basically, it maintains the same plot, only with another structure.
> 
> Before someone kills me, do not scream too much for the first chapters: it would not be a story of mine if there is no Fëanor / Fingolfin at some point. And no, this is not another post-Thangorodrim Russingon.
> 
> Just, give this a chance, please.


End file.
